


Origin

by MDB2005



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Military Backstory, Mpreg, Omega Verse, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-03-29 01:47:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 23,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13916760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDB2005/pseuds/MDB2005
Summary: Cross posted on fanfiction.net. Now posting here as well. AU, Omegaverse's origin story, M/M (explicit), Johnlock. After watching Sherlock fall to his death, John is shattered. When faced with life without Sherlock, he does the unthinkable. His actions will have unforseen consequences. Warning: MPREG, Dark themes. Disclaimer: I own no character rights and make no profit. No beta, not Brit picked, please excuse any errors. Reviews welcome.





	1. Chapter 1

Origin

Prologue

Caught in the Crossfire

Afghanistan

Present Day

John

"Fall in!" John ordered with a shout above the din. He was the troop leader and as soon as he was sure that he was uninjured and that he could move. He drew his weapon and was poised to attack. There was another explosion somewhere off to his left, the air had yet to clear from the first. Gun fire rained down upon him as the sand kicked up again further obstructing his vision causing everything to once again disappear in a haze of sand and dust.

The sand was everywhere. John coughed into his elbow and squinted. He heard Colonel Sholto over the radio ordering him to report. Before John could answer, the sound of one of his soldiers groaning after another round of gunfire caught his attention, McKay. First tour, only 24 years old. He clutched his chest before falling lifeless to the ground. John felt the rage building. He channeled that anger and let it fuel him without allowing it to control him. They would pay for that. John sighted the enemy, aimed, and pulled the trigger. He shot to kill and felt an almost sick sense of satisfaction as he watched their bodies drop one by one to the ground. John sighed once he heard the tell tale click of an empty magazine. He took comfort in the fact at that at least he had managed to take out 10 enemy soldiers, but it hadn't been enough. It seemed as though nothing he ever did was enough. John froze and dropped to his knees when he felt the metal barrel of a gun dig into his neck with a hard shove. He met the man's gaze coldly. This, it seemed, was it. He was about to meet his end.

It was ironic that he had managed to survive the initial blast and then had avoided being immediately killed by enemy fire and for a moment he wished that he hadn't been so lucky. At least it would have been a swift death. The IED had caught his troops by surprise. They were supposed to have been in a safe zone. Their vehicle had been destroyed by the blast and a good number John's fellow men were killed instantly. Those that had survived were quickly ambushed by enemy fire. John had shot off all of his rounds until he ran out of ammunition. He had always been a crack shot, even in basic training all those years ago; it was a skill that had come naturally to him. John closed his eyes ready to die feeling the scorching desert sun beating down on him. He wet his dry lips and could almost taste the blood in the arid air. He knew that this had been a long time coming. Death, it seemed, which he had been wagering with ever since Sherlock had fallen, had finally found him. He had taken too many risks and it had finally caught up with him. Truthfully, though, John couldn't bring himself to care. He should have died with his best friend. He was surprised that he had managed to survive over a year in a warzone without any sense of self-preservation.

John, however, could take comfort in the fact that in his most recent 18 months of active military service, he had managed to save more lives and take out more enemy combatants than in all of his previous tours of duty. While he was still occasionally called upon to use his medical skills, medicine was no longer his main focus of his job. He was no longer enlisted with the RAMC. He was now a full combatant, at his own request. He wanted to be on the battlefield fighting alongside his men. He longed to get his hands dirty, and not to be stuck in a field hospital. Though the healer in John was satisfied as he still treated battlefield injuries until help could arrive if there were no other corpsmen available. He accomplished more in these 18 months than he had in all of his previous tours of duty. He had been promoted to the rank of Major within his first six months back on active duty and was due for another promotion to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel after completing his supplementary SAS training which he had been hand selected by Sholto to complete the elite training. It seemed that he wouldn't live to see that promised promotion.

The sounds of gunfire still surrounded him as he was blindfolded, bound, and gagged as he overheard enemy soldiers arguing loudly in Pashto. This one, Officer, the deeper voice of the two insisted as John was pulled roughly to his feet. Too old, kill him. The other countered as he shoved the barrel of his rifle into John's side. But look at the scars. This one is a fighter, a survivor. The deeper voice pointed out as he ran a hand over the expansive scar, which decorated John's chest and shoulder in a distinctive starburst pattern. John grit his teeth and bucked uselessly against the bindings. Very well, we'll take him as prisoner, but I still think you're wrong. He'll never survive the treatment.

The voices echoed ominously in John's head as he was carted away by the enemy, now destined to become a prisoner of war. In all his years of military service, he had always managed to avoid enemy capture. First time for everything, John thought bitterly. It would likely be over soon. John took a moment to recall how he ended up back in a warzone in the first place. Sherlock, it always came back to Sherlock, it seemed.


	2. Chapter 2

Setting the Stage

London

18 months prior

John

After Sherlock had jumped to his death, John had been shattered. He was lost. After Sherlock's funeral, Mycroft had offered assistance. John had been surprised at first; after all, Mycroft had been hostile at their first meeting and obviously didn't approve of Sherlock's friendship with him. John had debated long and hard about whether to take the elder Holmes brother up on his offer. John had been ready to go. After the funeral, he had been planning to turn his gun on himself and follow Sherlock to the grave. It had taken seeing his best friend falling to his death from the rooftop of St. Bart's for John to finally admit to himself that his feelings for Sherlock ran much deeper than mere friendship. He winced as he recalled how many times he had spouted the phrase "not gay." Technically, it was true. John was attracted to women, but he was also attracted to Sherlock. He had buried those feelings deep, writing them off as some kind of Freudian defense mechanism. Looking back, it had been a defense mechanism, just not the one that John had originally thought. Repression, the more he repressed the stronger the sublimated feelings grew until John couldn't ignore them anymore. The fall had been the breaking point. It had opened the floodgates and with it came a mixture of feelings ranging from love and longing, to anger, regret and guilt.

After so much denial and wasted time, it was now too late. The pain of seeing Sherlock dead had been worse than being shot. He could never make it right. He would never have the chance to tell Sherlock the truth. The pain had been crippling and John had decided almost immediately that he was ready to join his friend in eternal slumber. Ironically, it had been Mycroft in the end that had saved him. John wondered what Sherlock would have thought of that if he were still alive.

John remembered the funeral service vaguely. It had been a dreary day, overcast and damp, almost appropriately somber. John had stayed after all of the mourners had left and though he couldn't recall every word that he had spoken at Sherlock's grave, he did remember asking him for one more miracle. "Please, don't be dead." He had begged. Someone had then cleared their throat loudly and John had stiffened as he realized that he must have been overheard. He had turned to find Mycroft Holmes standing behind him, looking cool and collected, perfectly put together as always. John felt his anger build. He knew that Sherlock and Mycroft had a difficult relationship, though he didn't know their back-story and now likely never would, but they were still brothers, nonetheless. His brother was dead and there was no trace of emotion in the man. No pain, no regret, not even anger, nothing. Cold as ice. Irene Adeler's voice echoed in his memory. Iceman. The description fit him like a glove.

"You could at least have the decency to look as if you're grieving. Regardless of you're issues, he was your brother, Mycroft." John spat angrily. Mycroft met his eyes evenly giving away nothing and twisted the handle of his umbrella before answering in a perfectly controlled voice.

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, John." His voice held no inflection and that in itself raised questions in John's mind. No one, not even Mycroft, was that controlled.

John's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Mycroft was up to something. John was sure that he was hiding something, but had no idea what that might be. He was always bollocks at deduction at everything besides medical diagnosis and military strategy, which were both skills that he had honed through years of training and clinical experience. John debated whether to call Mycroft on his bullshit and decided to let it go. If there was one thing that John had learn from living with Sherlock, it was that Mycroft Holmes never gave up information without getting something in return and John had nothing to barter with. So he got to the point, hoping to cut the conversation short and go back to Baker's Street where he still had his gun safely hidden.

"What do you want?" He asked bluntly looking down at Sherlock's grave and felt his throat tighten at the sight. He would never see his friend again. He was too late. There would be no second chances.

"I wish to offer you assistance." Mycroft admitted softly with a glance at the grave. "It's what he would have wanted. I spoke that same warning to Sherlock and he did not heed my words. He cared for you, John. Never doubt that fact."

Rather than soothe him, as he was sure Mycroft had intended to do, the words only served to increase his guilt. Too late; he should have said something sooner. Sherlock cared about him, but John would never have a chance to find out just how deeply Sherlock's feelings for him went. "I…you can't give me what I want…no one can…It's too late…He's gone. " He choked up and felt the tears that had been threatening to appear slide down his cheeks. He wiped them away quickly. He didn't want Mycroft to see him like this. John wanted nothing more than to go back to Baker's Street and end it all. No more pain, sorrow, regret or guilt. "I have to go." He said as he moved past Mycroft slowly. His leg has been giving him trouble since Sherlock's death and he has been forced to use his cane again.

"John, wait." Mycroft said as he grabbed his arm effectively halting his escape. John turned and met his eyes furiously. He didn't want to wait. He only wanted to end it and as he looked into Mycroft's eyes he realized that the man could likely sense his intentions. "I may not be able to bring Sherlock back, but I can do something else for you." He rushed to explain before John could tell him to fuck off. "I told you at our first meeting that you were not haunted by the war, but that you missed it. What if I could give that back to you?"

John frowned. "What do you mean?" He asked before thinking better of it.

"Alter you're service and medical records in order to allow you to reenlist." Mycroft explained.

"That's impossible." John said looking at Mycroft incredulously wondering if he's serious.

"Not for me." Mycroft admitted looking smug.

"That's illegal." John hedged still wondering if Mycroft was bluffing.

"One does what one must. Certain exceptions can be made. Some laws can be overlooked." Mycroft replied completely serious.

"I…" John trailed off as he began to consider the option. He had to admit that it was tempting. He thrived on danger, always had. He already had a death wish, if he were to be killed in action, then at least he would be serving crown and country and his death could mean something. Perhaps he could save a few lives along the way. If he didn't enjoy or if didn't work out, well there was always suicide, which he had already been planning on. "All right, Mycroft. I think I'd like to give it a shot. I'll take you up on your offer." John admitted with a ghost of a smile as the irony of his words hit him.

A small smile flickered across Mycroft's face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come as he replied "My pleasure, Captain." John paused a moment at being called by his rank as the full scope of his decision hit him. It would be an interesting ride that much was for sure. John could only hope that he wouldn't regret it.


	3. Chapter 3

On the Other Side

London

14 weeks after the fall

Mycroft

Mycroft frowned. He was usually not one to second guess his prior decisions, but couldn't help but do so in this case. Captain John H. Watson, MD had just completed his phase 1 basic training. Although he was already a ranking officer, Mycroft had not circumvented the requirement that John attend the training as it had been years since he had been on active duty. The course was required to be completed in order to prove that John's skills and physical condition were still up to par. John had bemoaned the fact that he would be placed in a class designed for new recruits who were just learning skills that John had long ago mastered.

"I've been through officer's training at Sandhurst, for the love of God, Mycroft. Can't you work your magic to get the bloody requirement waived?" John had asked as he had bulked at the idea of being forced to endure a 14-week phase one training course.

"Unfortunately not, John. I was forced to alter your records significantly to avoid suspicion and this is the only way." He had insisted. John and then sighed deeply and reluctantly agreed. In truth, Mycroft could have made the requirement disappear. He could have simply added the certificate of completion to John's altered record. He had chosen not to. He wanted John to be eased back into active duty and this training would help ensure that. John had been a civilian for years and despite his extensive military experience, the change would still prove to be significant.

Mycroft had been surprised when he had dug through John's military records extensively. Though he had a basic picture from his file that he had pulled on Dr. Watson when he first became associated with his brother, it had just scratched the surface. John Watson was much more than just an army doctor wounded in Afghanistan. He had begun his medical training at John King's College London with additional training at St. Bart's. After earning his medical degree and receiving his license to practice medicine, he then began practicing as a civilian physician. He worked in private practice for a little over a year, before he then had joined the Royal Army Medical Corps. After working as an army doctor in the RAMC for a number of years, he completed officer's training at Sandhurst.

He rose to the rank of Captain while serving as a full combatant in Afghanistan before getting shot and medically discharged. Penchant for danger, indeed. By the end of his military career, John Watson had become more of a soldier than a doctor. Mycroft had little doubt that this time around, John would insist that he be placed in combat on the battlefield. Mycroft could only hope that he would survive long enough for Sherlock to finish his mission and plan his reemergence. It would be criminal to have saved John Watson from himself only to see him killed in action before Sherlock's return.

Mycroft was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of clicking echoing on the wood floors. After a obligatory rap on the door, it opened quickly revealing Anthea. Her chestnut hair was pulled into a classic French twist and her make up was subtle but striking. It brings out her full lips and highlights her chocolate colored eyes. "I trust I procured the necessary information, sir." She inquired with a slight quirk of her eyebrow.

"Your work is impeccable as always." Mycroft assured and he meant it. Anthea is more than just his personal assistant, so very much more.

"Do you require anything further of me?" She replied.

"Not at the moment," Mycroft answered contemplating how to handle his brother. "That may change, however. I don't want Sherlock getting sloppy. He must keep his mind on the mission and not on Dr. Watson."

Anthea smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. She was the only one besides himself and Dr. Hooper who know that Sherlock is still alive. "That might prove difficult." Anthea murmured.

"Most assuredly, my dear." Mycroft agreed.


	4. Chapter 4

Through the Looking Glass

Romania

3 months after the fall

Sherlock

Sherlock stalked his mark. He had been working to take apart Moriarty's web. The progress was extremely slow and Sherlock had no accurate estimate regarding the amount of time that it would take him to complete the task. He was still haunted by the horrified look on John's face as he had fallen. He felt his stomach tighten at the thought of causing his friend so much grief, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Moriarty had forced his hand. He had threatened those dearest to him and Sherlock couldn't allow John to be hurt. He thought about John a lot since that day. He worried about his friend. He had very limited to contact with Mycroft and what few inquires that he made regarding John were left unanswered. Unfortunately, Sherlock was hardly in the position to do anything about at this point being so deep undercover. Mark his words though; he would make sure that Mycroft paid for his silence regarding John.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of river, and after only three months undercover he could barely recognize himself. He looked emaciated and dirty. He hadn't looked this bad since he was a fully blown drug addict in the peak of using. Sherlock sneered at his appearance. It didn't matter what he looked like, so long as he could complete his mission and make his way back to John, nothing else mattered. He cared nothing about himself. All that mattered was that John was safe. He had done it all for John and Sherlock was not about to let one thread of Moriarty's web escape him and leave John opened to attack. He had been used as a pawn in order to get to Sherlock at the pool then again on the rooftop of St. Bart's and Sherlock intended to be certain that was never allowed to happen again. Sherlock felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. There was only one person with access to this encrypted line. Sherlock was sorely tempted to ignore his brother after his refusal to give him any information regarding John.

Status?

Sherlock ignored the text and ducked behind a skip to avoid detection from the mark.

Report!

Sherlock smiled. Mycroft was already getting testy. The fat git was nothing if not predictable. It was time to dangle a carrot. Quid pro quo.

John?

Sherlock waited his eyes never leaving the mark as he waited for the tell tale vibration of a text. He glanced down in shock when a reply finally came.

Reenlisted.

Impossible, John was given a medical discharge. He was shot and injured with a diagnosis of PTSD, as well as a limp and intermittent hand tremor in his dominant hand. Sherlock felt his rage at Mycroft build as he deduced that the only way in which reenlistment would be possible was if Mycroft had used his considerable influence to either alter John's records or make them disappear completely. He gripped the phone tightly as the thought of John being injured or worse killed in action ran through his mind. His chest tightened making it hard to breathe. He had agreed to this mission to protect John and now his sacrifice may be for not. Sherlock looked up and cursed viciously under his breath as he realized that he had lost sight of the subject. The mark had disappeared and as a result Sherlock had just lost two days worth of work. Bloody Mycroft!

Why?

The question encompassed not only the notion of why Mycroft had allowed it to happen, but also why John had accepted the offer in the first place and went through with the reenlistment. Sherlock forced himself to breathe deeply as his heart raced in a panic. He was trapped and unable to help John until he completed the mission to take down every operative and contact in Moriarty's web. He looked down at his phone in disbelief as Mycroft's reply came through.

I did it to save him, brother mine. He did not take your death well. He was suicidal. I offered him a distraction from his grief and he accepted it. I have no doubt that he would be dead now if I had not given him that option.

Sherlock wanted to scream. For as much as he wanted to believe that Mycroft was lying, he couldn't. He had seen first hand the horror in John's eyes as he had been forced to watch Sherlock's fall. He had heard it in his voice as John had begged Sherlock not to jump. His fault; this was all his fault. In trying to save John from Moriarty, Sherlock may have sentenced him to death in the military. He felt helplessness overtake him and it was a feeling that he loathed. Sherlock took another deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He needed to finish this mission before John was harmed. Sherlock closed his eyes and drifted off to his mind palace to rethink his strategy.


	5. Chapter 5

In the Army Now

14 weeks after enlistment

John looked around the training camp causing a bittersweet pang of nostalgia to overwhelm him for a moment. Though he was sure that Mycroft could have had the requirement waived, for some reason he had refused to do so. Perhaps it was just bruise John's ego a bit, but John had swallowed his pride and done it. Truthfully, it hadn't been as bad as he first expected. Put in your penance and you shall be rewarded. He thought to himself. While the new recruits were wet behind the ears, they were eager to learn and John had even mentored a few of them. He had managed to make a few good friends in the process. The one thing that had gotten tedious were the basic drills, that was one thing that he could have lived without. He could have run them in his sleep.

"Not going to miss this place much are you, Captain?" John was pulled from his thoughts by the voice of Bill Murray. John smiled looking up at him with a shake of his head. Bill returned it with a knowing smirk. Bill was tall and lean. He had green eyes and red hair with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He looked much younger than he actually was. Bill was one of the recruits that John had mentored and he would miss him when the new assignments came through. Bill was a quick study and had a good head on his shoulders. John was confident that he would excel. He was a bit older than most of the new recruits, having already finished college with a degree in nursing and already had a few years of practice under his belt. Because he was enlisting with a background of civilian medical training, he qualified for officers training and could have chosen to entered as an officer as an RN in a base hospital. But he wanted to be on the battlefield and had chosen instead to become a combat medic, which would put him on the front lines treating soldiers. Stating only, "If I wanted to work in a hospital, I could done it as a civilian."

John could sympathize. Civilian medicine could be unbearably dull. John had only lasted a year in private practice right out of medical school, before enlisting with the RAMC. That was part of the reason why he had started picking up shifts at the A&E in between cases in addition to working at the surgery when he come back to London and began living with Sherlock at Baker's Street. Some people thrived on predictability and routines, but John wasn't one of those people, and evidently, neither was Murray.

"Have you heard anything regarding the new assignments?" Bill asked lifting an eyebrow. "I wouldn't mind having you as a commanding officer." He admitted with a smile and a wink.

John chuckled softly before responding. "No, I haven't heard anything. But I doubt we'll be assigned together. I have requested to serve as a full combatant rather than serve with the RAMC. I haven't been assigned a regiment yet. Though I suspect that when I am assigned, it will be the with Fusilier's as I served with that regiment during my last tour in Afghanistan." John explained. Bill's eyes widened at the admission clearly taken by surprise.

"Cor, John…" He murmured looking shocked and very worried. "Are you sure that you want to do that? It's not too late to change your mind. You're a qualified physician and the RAMC would snap you up in a heartbeat."

"I know they would, Bill. In fact, that's where they first wanted me to be assigned this time around. Doctors are in short supply, but this is what I want, to fight alongside my fellow men. Don't get me wrong, the RAMC is an important part of the military and serves a vital role. It was an honor serving with them, but it isn't for me anymore. I served with RAMC for years before going through officers training at Sandhurst and re-enlisting as a full combatant during my last two tours in Afghanistan. It's why I've only achieved the rank of Captain at my age. I essentially started from scratch when I was assigned with Fusilier's as a full combatant after leaving the RAMC." John replied with a sigh as he took in the disbelieving look on Bill's face.

"Don't worry, Bill. Though it's been a few years, I still have my skills as you saw during the drills. I'll be fine, this isn't my first time in combat and it won't be my last." John said with a wink of his own trying to assuage some of Bill's worry. Bill looked at him seriously before answering.

"It's not that you don't have the skills, John. You do, you'd have to be blind not to see that. Bloody hell, that was some of the best marksmanship I've ever witnessed. But…. No one is immortal. If you're really set on doing this, promise me that you'll be careful." Bill pleaded. John sighed and looked down unable to meet Bill's eyes knowing that he was going into this not caring whether he lived or died.

Refusing to lie, he simply stated. "There are no guarantees in life, Bill. Even if something happens to me, I don't have someone back home depending on me like you do." John was referring to Bill's wife, Kate. "You're the one that should be careful."

Bill's expression hardened. "Captain!" He hissed out the word angrily forcing John to look up and finally meet his eyes. He then continued in a much gentler voice. "Don't ever think that no one cares. I know for a fact that every recruit that has worked with you in the last 14 weeks would attest to that, myself included." John felt his throat tighten, and rather than risk his voice wavering, he simply nodded in acknowledgement.


	6. Chapter 6

Behind the Curtain

Molly

Molly watched helplessly as Greg Lestrade ranted. "First, Sherlock jumps off a roof, then John decides to reenlist in the military despite the fact that he shouldn't be eligible because of his injury. I smell a rat. First, Sherlock was too much of an arrogant ass to have suicidal tendencies. There must be something that we're not seeing. Something forced his hand and I want to find out what it was. Not only that, but let's not forget John. There is only one way that he could have been allowed to reenlist. Someone high up called in a few favors and I bet you anything that someone was Mycroft Holmes. He's the only one with the political clout and high-level clearance with a vested interest. I don't know whether to thank him or strangle him." Molly raised an eyebrow, but remained otherwise silent. She suspected that Greg would dig deeper and was debating what to say about it.

If she encouraged him to let it go, it may point the finger in her direction and further fuel his conspiracy theories. But if she encouraged him to investigate, there was always the possibility that he may stumble upon information that he was never meant to discover. Sherlock's death must remain unquestioned for both his own safety and in order to safeguard his mission. Molly was only brought into the inner circle as a last resort and though she worried about John; he was not the main focus. Sherlock must dismantle Moriarty's web. That was what had been repeated to her over and over. Though Molly suspected that Dr. Watson meant more to Sherlock than anyone suspected, and that if something happened to him then Sherlock may do something drastic. What that action would be remained up for debate, but Molly was sure that it would not beneficial to the mission to take down Moriarty's web.

Molly bit her lip unsure of what to do. Greg looked at her. His brown eyes met hers and felt her heart lurch. Greg had been having a rough time. After Sherlock's death, his wife had left after Greg had finally confronted her regarding the cheating. He had taken it harder than Molly had thought, all things considered. Molly couldn't throw stones though. She had been pining for Sherlock for as long as she had known him. She had finally decided to let it go. Sherlock would never want her. She had seen the way that he looked at John when he thought no one was looking. She had even called him on it. "You look sad, when you think he can't see you."

Sherlock had looked at her, and for a moment, a naked vulnerability had shone in those changeable otherworldly eyes. Sherlock had schooled his expression quickly, but not quickly enough. It was then that Molly knew that Sherlock's feelings for John Watson ran much deeper than mere friendship. She could never compete. "Molly, are you ok?" Greg asked as he looked at her with concern. "You looked like you were a million miles away just now." He sighed and ran a hand through his silver hair in frustration.

"I-I was just thinking." She stammered as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at being caught daydreaming. Greg must think that she was a fool.

"Aye, I've been doing that too much lately, it seems. It's easy to get lost in your own head sometimes." Greg admitted in a kind voice. "I just can't let it go. I'm missing something. I know I am." Molly mirrored his sigh and sad smile.

"Tea?" Molly asked hoping to break the somber mood. Greg nodded with a weary smile. Molly then set off to get the kettle.


	7. Chapter 7

Welcome Back

John

When the assignments finally come through, John's official letter read Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. It had come as no surprise and had caused a rush of feelings to come forth ranging loyalty and nostalgia, to eager anticipation, and if he was completely honest, a hint of anxiety. John had grown used to the flexibility of civilian life. While the phase 1 training had allowed him to brush up on the basics and begin to acclimate back into active service, training was not the battlefield. John could take comfort in the fact that so far things had gone smoothly. It was surprising how quickly the routines had come back to him. It was amazing how much his body remembered, often before his mind questioned or responded. Some things became so deeply ingrained that they could never be forgotten, but this was no longer training. He would be back in combat soon.

John's new commanding officer was a man by the name of Major James Sholto. Though John had yet to meet him, he had already heard a number of nasty rumors. John hated rumors and never repeated them, but most often they were impossible to avoid completely. John vowed not to let them affect his judgment and to base his opinions on facts and actions. According to rumor, Sholto had led a troop of new recruits into an ambush where all but one of the recruits died. The attack left Sholto disfigured, horrifically burned from the blast of explosives. He was lucky to have survived and no one had expected him to return to active duty, but he had defied expectation and returned.

The gory story notwithstanding, he also had a reputation almost prohibitively strict and by the book. Insubordination was simply not tolerated. Punishments were often severe, even for simple mistakes. He possessed a commanding presence and had a way of speaking to you as of you were under intense interrogation. You didn't reply to his inquires…you gave up information. That said, however, he was fair. If someone performed admirably, he didn't ignore it. It was acknowledged and often led to promotion. John could understand that. If there was even grain of truth to that story, then policy and procedure should rightfully be the man's top priority and as for commanding presence, that was par for the course in the military. John could deal with it so long as he was fair. High expectations were not a negative in John's mind; they were a requirement.

John was pulled abruptly from his thoughts by an unfamiliar voice. "You looked as if you were a million miles away. Don't let Major Sholto catch you staring off into space like that." John's eyes flickered over the man's insignia noting that he was a lower ranking officer, Lieutenant, before moving up to meet the speaker's eyes. He was tall and broad shouldered with hair as dark as Sherlock's with dark brown eyes. He was accompanied by a large bloodhound that stood stoically by his side. John frowned as he took in the animal. It wasn't that fact that the officer was a handler, service dogs were often used throughout the regiments, it was the breed that took him by surprise. Most war dogs were shepherds. Bloodhounds, though unmatched by another breed in terms of tracking ability because of their superior sense of smell, had a reputation for being stubborn and easily distractible, making them very hard to train; and those traits were undesirable in service animals. "Name's Jones, Lt. Peter Jones." He introduced himself and then gestured to the dog. "This is Toby." The dog's tail wagged when he heard his name and his tongue lulled out as he started to pant. He then went on to say. "I see that we'll be serving together. Have you met Major Sholto yet?"

"No, not yet" John answered. "Capt. John Watson. Good to meet you." He said and shook hands slightly warily keeping an eye on the dog as the dog sniffed his hand when he pulled away.

"Likewise," Jones replied with a half smile. John could see his curiosity under the surface, but John didn't like to disclose his background to just anyone. That was something that must be earned and was a sign of implicit trust on his part. The only one who knew his whole story was Bill Murray. Even his commanding officers didn't know everything, as Mycroft had altered and redacted much of the information in his military file.

"Not often you see a blood hound amongst the ranks." John said evasively. The man's smile widened as he looked down at his charge.

"Aye, notoriously stubborn and hard to train they are, but not Toby. He's the best of the best. Made it through all the required training. He's the best tracker there is. He can do just about anything, search and rescue, drug detection, bomb sniffing. Hell, he even track cadavers for body retrieval." Jones admitted as he gave Toby a scratch behind the ears.

"Always good to have someone watching your back." John agreed still wondering if the dog was only trained for tracking. The question slipped out before he thought better of it. "Will he attack on command?" Jones winced before answering.

"Aye, that was the one part of training that he had some trouble with. They are not an aggressive breed by nature, but he'll do it." Jones replied as the dog's tailed wagged furiously with the attention.

John raised an eyebrow, but otherwise made no comment. "What tour number is this for you?" Jones asked he looked John over seriously. "Did you get a late start? Career change?"

John sighed and debated how much to disclose. He didn't want to alienate his fellow officers and John knew that his rank and age would garner some sideways glances, so he really could blame the man for asking. "I've held a number of occupations as a civilian before reenlisting. I have served with this regiment during my last two tours in Afghanistan." It was now Jones's turn to raise an eyebrow, but he had the good grace to let the subject drop.


	8. Chapter 8

Here We Go Again

James Sholto

Afghanistan

Major James Sholto skimmed the names under his command. Most were new recruits, but there were two experienced officers lumped in with the rest, a Lt. Peter Jones and Capt. John Watson. Sholto racked his memory, but neither name rings a bell. He had pulled the files on both men and was surprised to find that the Captain was a former RAMC physician, but there was not much else mentioned. Why would a physician enlist as a full combatant? The file was extremely thin for a man of his age and Sholto would bet his bottom dollar that the information had been redacted. He made up his mind then and there to watch the man closely. The other, Lt. Jones was beginning his third tour, however it would be his first time serving in Afghanistan. He was trained as a handler and would be serving with his bloodhound Toby.

His eyes flickered up as his new troop assembled for the first time. Sholto stared them down daring them break protocol. If there was one thing that he was unyielding about it was SOP. Policies were in place for a reason, and barring a complete and utter clusterfuck, they were never to be ignored. He could easily pick out the officers amongst them. Jones, with his bloodhound by his side, stood tall and unwavering. The man had dark hair and eyes with an impressive build; the picture of an officer. Sholto's eyes then moved over to Watson. The man was at first glance was unimpressive. He was only about 5'6 with sandy blond hair, just beginning to grey at the temples with a compact build. But if one looked beyond the obvious, his eyes hinted at something much more dangerous hiding behind the unassuming appearance. They were the eyes of a man who had seen too much, a man on the edge. There was a story there and he intended to do some digging to find out more.

"Attention!" He commanded. "For those of you that haven't heard, I am your commanding officer, Major James Shloto. Insubordination will not be tolerated. Now, let's see what you've got. About face, forward march!" He always ran basic drills the first day in order to assess skill levels.

John

John ran through the drills easily. Sholto shot him wary looks throughout the entire exercise, particularly during the target practice. John couldn't understand why. One thing was for sure, however. The rumor was at least partially true. James Sholto was horribly scarred. The entire side of his face was disfigured by burns. They could not take away from the intelligence and determination in his blue eyes. John wished, not for the first time, that he had Sherlock's gift of deduction, so that he could get an idea of what the man was thinking. The thought of his friend caused John to pause for a moment as his chest tightened. He quickly recovered and proceeded with the drills. "Watson!" John broke formation and approached as ordered with confidence despite the sideways glances that he had been given by both his commanding officer as well as his fellow soldiers. His performance had been flawless. He didn't know why he was being singled out but there was no basis for a reprimand and John wasn't about to be scolded for nothing.

"Meet me at the barracks at 2100." Sholto ordered in sotto voce. "Dismissed." John nodded sharply and moved back to join his troop a bit confused and on edge. He would evidently be learning more in regards to the officer's opinion later tonight, but for now John needed to focus on the task at hand and returned to the drills mindful that of his every move as he was mercilessly scrutinized.

Nightfall

John breathed a sigh of relief as the scorching heat was diminished with nightfall. He moved towards the barracks unsure of exactly what to expect. Not so much worried as annoyed. How he could have gotten on Sholto's shit list was a mystery to him. He had reenlisted in order to serve in combat and if that wasn't a possibility then John always had other options. He had his military issued weapon on his person at all times. It was like an old friend, always ready and waiting should the need arise. He pushed Bill Murray's plea out of his mind. He would do what needed to be done. "Watson, Attention." John's body responded by rote as his straightened and saluted.

"Sir, yes, Sir." He answered as Sholto approached looking at him like one of Sherlock's failed experiments. It set John's teeth on edge. This was one thing that he hadn't missed in the military. The potential for abuse of power.

"What is your story, Watson? I've read your file. Army doctor, there has to be more to it than that. You could have run those drills with your eyes closed and that was some of the best marksmanship I have ever seen. Those are not the skills of an RAMC physician. But even more than your skills, your eyes give you away; windows to the soul. What have yours seen?" Sholto fired the questions at him as his eyes bore into him looking through him with a cold calculation similar to Sherlock. Sherlock, God. Would he never escape his tortured memories of what if's when it came to the mad genius that was Sherlock Holmes? Something akin to pain must have flickered across his face before he could mask it because Sholto pounced sensing an opening. "Man on the edge, you've lost someone. Someone close. I know about loss and regret and what it can do to a man." His voice changed with the last statement it moved from demanding and interrogating to soft and sympathetic. John risked breaking protocol and met Sholto's gaze and saw the internal pain that he had been feeling mirrored back at him.

Perhaps Sholto hadn't called him here to discipline him. No, that wasn't his intention. He wanted the full story that much was sure, but it wasn't to make his life miserable. The man was knew what it was like to have a death wish and could see himself in John. He wanted to save him. John didn't quite know what to make of that.


	9. Chapter 9

3 months later

At the tone, please record your message

London

Harriet Watson

"Damn it Johnny, pick up!" Harry snapped into her mobile as the sound of John's voice mail greeted her yet again. She had been trying to contact her brother for the past two days without success. She had called, texted and e-mailed and gotten no response. She winced as she took a sip of her drink knowing that if Johnny were here, he would be reading her the riot act. She had fallen off the wagon again after 2 years of sobriety. Clara had left her. That had been the final straw. Things had been going down hill for a while. She should have seen it coming, but she had ignored the warning signs. She tried. She really did, but life just kept throwing her curveballs. She had hit bottom. She had no job. She had been fired 2 months ago due to cutbacks. Last in, first out or so they had claimed. Money had been tight before the layoff. After losing her job, she and Clara had started arguing. It had started with money, but quickly ballooned into other topics and then, just last week, Clara had left. Without Clara's income, she couldn't afford the flat. Harriet now had no job, no girlfriend, no money, and no place to go.

She hated to impose on Johnny again. Despite their strained relationship, Johnny always offered to help, even when she didn't deserve it. He had been trying to look out for her for as long as she could remember and in the past she hadn't thought twice about accepting his help, but things were different now. She wasn't a kid anymore; what's more, her brother had been through hell. Harry felt her chest tighten as she recalled how Johnny stood in front of their Da and took the beatings without making a sound while she hid in her room hoping and praying that she wouldn't be next. Johnny would provoke him on the nights when he was drunk so that he would go after him instead of her. Da had been a mean son of a bitch and had only gotten meaner after their mother had died of cancer. After she died, the drinking had gone from bad to worse and the more he drank the more abusive he became. Johnny had taken her in when she was a teenage runaway despite the fact that he had enough on his plate with medical school. He had paid to put her through rehab when the drinking got out of control even though he had been deployed in Afghanistan at the time. It had been a very one-sided relationship. He gave and she took.

She had tried to turn her life around when he came back wounded. Johnny was nearly killed. He came back with a limp and a tremor in addition to PTSD. She had vowed that things would be different, and for a while, they were. She had managed to stay sober and had gotten a steady job then met Clara. She didn't have to burden him anymore. Their relationship had improved and they spoke regularly after that. Harry smiled as she recalled some of the stories Johnny would tell about his mad flatmate Sherlock Holmes. Though she never met him, she felt like she knew him because Johnny talked about him so much. Then the unthinkable happened. Sherlock Holmes jumped to his death in front of her brother's eyes. Harry had tried to call many times afterwards, but he hadn't answered. She hadn't spoken with John since Sherlock had died. Now she needed help again and for the first time in her life her brother wasn't there. Harry sighed unsure what she would do this time.

Harry racked her brain trying to think of anyone who might be able to contact Johnny. Mike Stamford came to mind, but she dismissed him. As Johnny hadn't seen much of him since his locum work at the A&E had trickled to a minimum after moving in with Sherlock. Sarah Sawyer, was another acquaintance but Harry wrote her off as well. That relationship had ended in disaster and Johnny had quit his job at the surgery shortly after. Martha Hudson, the landlady. She was a possibility. She might have a forwarding address, but whether she would give it to Harry was another story. Molly Hooper, the ME at St. Bart's. But she had always been closer to Sherlock than Johnny and Harry couldn't be sure that she and Johnny had even stayed in contact. DI Lestrade. He would be her best chance. Johnny had mentioned how they were friendly and would occasionally go out together at the pub. If there were someone who could point her in the right direction, it would be him.

She sighed and dialed the number for the met hoping that her lead would yield results. "New Scotland Yard, how may I direct your call?" A soft female voice asked.

"Yes, I trying to contact DI Gregory Lestrade. Is he available?" Harriet asked.

"He is currently away from his desk. He is out on case, but you can leave a voice mail. I'll connect you to his desk extension." Before Harriet could reply there was a beep and an outgoing message asking for her name, contact info and a brief description of her inquiry. After leaving her number, Harriet went on to say.

"Yes, this is Harriet Watson. I'm John Watson's sister. There reason I'm calling is I'm in a bit of a bind and have been trying to get a hold of Johnny but haven't had any luck. He mentioned that you were two friends and I was hoping you could help me out. I need to speak to him. Thank you." Harriet hung up the phone no closer to finding her brother than she had been when she first started.

Meanwhile

Undisclosed location

Mary Morstan

Mary Morstan looked at the file that had just been delivered. AGRA had just acquired a new assignment, one that, at first glance made little sense. It would require her to go deeply undercover into the Afghan desert in order to infiltrate the ranks of the British army and keep watch over the newly reenlisted solider by the name of John Watson. She was not to kill him. Quite the opposite, she was employed to keep him alive until told otherwise. She was to be neither seen nor heard, but to remain a ghostly bodyguard to a seemingly inconsequential man. It seemed a waste, at least in her opinion, to pay AGRA's substantial fee keeping this man alive, but she was not paid to contemplate the reasons behind her orders, but rather to follow them without question. As she looked over John Watson's un-redacted file, she was surprised at what she found. She could not help but feel a begrudging respect for a man that she had yet to see for the first time.

The military record was exemplary. Watson began as an RAMC physician serving as a trauma surgeon on the front lines treating battle injuries, after serving in that capacity for several years and saving countless lives, he then volunteered for officer's training at Sandhurst. After completing the rigorous training, he then re-enlisted as a full combatant and was deployed to Afghanistan during the height of operation HERRICK. Watson once again proved himself. He was skilled in battle and a true crack-shot, he rose quickly to the rank of Captain and was awarded the Victorian Cross for his service in Helmand during operation Achilles. His service was cut short, however, due to a near fatal shot to the shoulder during battle leading to a medical discharge. Mary's brow furrowed in confusion as she read on.

That should have been the end of it. PTSD and intermittent tremor should have barred him from re-enlisting, but someone had altered the records. Why? She thought as she read on still perplexed and unsure of what significance this man seemed to have in order to justify all this subterfuge. He was currently stationed in Kandahar, under commanding officer James Sholto, and in just a few months time, Watson had led several successful missions leading to his promotion to the rank of Major. Mary studied the battle logs and frowned deeply. While Watson had ensured that his men were sufficiently careful in battle, he himself was not. He had been aggressive, borderline reckless in his pursuit of the enemy. Then she came across the missing puzzle piece that fit the actions together. Suicidal tendencies. The man had a death wish; this was why she was needed. She must protect him from himself, so to speak. Why her employer wanted this man kept alive remained a mystery.


	10. Chapter 10

Learn to expect the unexpected

Greg Lestrade

Greg played the voicemail back a second time unsure if this was some kind of joke. Greg knew that John had a sister, but didn't realize that they still spoke. John had never mentioned her. Greg did recall Sherlock making a deduction about John rationing his alcohol use because of his sister. Though Greg had never asked John about it directly, he had assumed that his sister's drinking was the reason that they weren't close and why he never talked about her. Now Greg gets a phone call out of the blue asking for John's contact information. Even if he believed the lady, who wasn't sure about, he had no idea how to get a hold of John since he had re-enlisted. The only one who might have a shot in hell at getting a message to John was Mycroft Holmes. Greg toyed with the idea of pointing the woman in his direction just to see what would happen. It would be entertaining, that much was for sure. Then again, that might be cruel and unusual punishment.

He picked up the phone debating for moment before dialing the number. It rang a few times before a female voice answered. "Hello, this is Harry." Greg hoped he wouldn't regret this.

"Yes, this DI Lestrade. I'm returning your call." He said and was interrupted before he could continue.

"Bloody hell…thank Christ! I've been so worried. It's not like Johnny to be totally unreachable. I've tried calling him countless times since Sherlock's death and it always goes to voicemail, which I have filled up with unanswered messages. Do you know where he is or have a contact number for him?" Greg debated how much to say, but decided to be honest. She more than likely wouldn't get very far with Mycroft, but she was welcome to try.

"Yeah, John's re-enlisted. That's the reason he hasn't answered your calls. I don't have a contact number for him, but I know someone who might. You're welcome to call him, but I have to warn you Mycroft Holmes is not someone who you should take lightly. There is a reason they call him the British government." Greg said listening to the horrified gasp at the other end of the line.

"What do you mean re-enlisted? He was shot and given a medical discharge!" Harry shouted clearly shocked and angry.

"I can't tell you the how's and why's of it, but it has happened. Don't shoot the messenger. Do you want the number?" Greg replied not about to listen to a lecture from an absentee family member. Where the hell had she been when John was suffering after Sherlock's death?

"You bet your ass I want it! I demand to know what the hell is happening with my brother!" She snapped. Greg bit his lip hoping that he hadn't made a grave mistake in even offering it to her. She was libel to get herself into deep shit if she dug too deeply.

"I'll give it to you, but first a word of warning, don't go digging for things that are better left buried. You may not like what you find. Mycroft Holmes is not to be crossed." Greg warned seriously before giving her the number.

Harriet Watson

Harry was fuming when she hung up the phone with the DI. Re-enlisted! Of all the nerve! How the hell had it happened and why had Johnny ever agreed to it? One thing was for certain; she was going to find out, one way or another. She punched in the number to Mycroft Holmes office and was greeted by a posh sounding female voice. "Mycroft Holmes office, how may I assist you?"

"My name is Harriet Watson and I have been trying to reach my brother Dr. John Watson and was told that he had re-enlisted with the military and that your office may be able to provide me with a contact number for him." She said. She would start politely and see where that got her first.

"I'm sorry, Madame. I can't give out that information. It is a violation of privacy." The woman on the other line replied.

"I'm his sister. I have a right to contact him. I want to speak to Mr. Holmes." Harry said struggling to keep from yelling.

"Mr. Holmes is not currently available. I am sorry that I cannot be of further assistance." She replied coolly. Harry seethed and snapped.

"What's your name?" She demanded.

"Anthea." The voice answered.

"Anthea who?" Harry asked loosing her patience.

"Just Anthea. I'm sorry that I cannot help you further." Before Harry could reply the phone clicked and dial tone filled her ear.

"God damn it" Harry hissed angrily.


	11. Chapter 11

Moving up the Ranks

1 month later

John

"John, in light of your exemplary performance today and throughout your current tour of duty, I am recommending that you enter SAS training." James Sholto announced after a particularly hellish day. It had been a clusterfuck and John didn't feel particularly good about his performance. He wished that he could have done more. As the saying went, an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure. But John knew deep down that there was nothing that he could have done to prevent those injuries, but it still left him feeling helpless. John looked up at Sholto unsure if he was serious. There was no humor lurking in Sholto's blue eyes as he took a long drag off his cigarette. John wrinkled his nose as the smell of tobacco smoke reached him and for a bittersweet moment he was reminded of Sherlock.

"Those things will kill you." John lectured wearily with a sigh as they walked side-by-side back towards the barracks in Kandahar.

"I'm more worried about bullets or explosives." James replied with a sigh of his own releasing a plume of smoke as he answered. "You've earned it, John. That much is for damn sure. Anyone would back that up." James said changing the topic back easily. John and his commanding officer had, over the last few months, developed not only a mutual respect for one another, but a deep friendship as well, which often proved to be a bit of a delicate balancing act at times. James was always professional, but their relationship was a complicated one and it was a potential minefield of conflicts. James was the only one who knew the whole story. Everything, including Sherlock and his fall. Not even Murray had known that John had watched, horrified as his best friend, his unrequited love, had fallen to his death resulting in John re-enlisting without caring whether he lived or died. John sometimes got the sense that if things were different between them that James would have asked for more, but John's heart was still broken and, what's more, intimate relationships within the ranks were strictly forbidden. Not to say that it was unheard of for such things to go on behind closed doors.

Sholto had talked John down a few times when he was on the edge and ready to end it. Though the feeling came rarely, but when it did those times were brutal. Times when he missed Sherlock so much that it hurt to breathe and that all he wanted for the pain to end. "I can't deny that I owe you my life James, lord knows, but I don't want favors." John insisted wishing that he had a drink to settle his nerves. He cut the thought off quickly as he was reminded of Harry and all the trouble that the bottle had caused her over the years. John felt a pang of guilt for not calling her after Sherlock's death after he had re-enlisted. Assuming that she was still sober, she was probably worried about him. John would just add it to the ever-growing list of things that he felt guilty about. John squeezed his eyes shut and was assaulted by memories. It had been a horrific day. Their combat medic was amongst the wounded leaving John the only other person who was qualified to treat battle injuries. Though they had managed to avoid any loss of life, there had been numerous severe injuries. Two of the soldier's were now amputees and a third ended up with an emergency tracheotomy. That hardly qualified as a victory in John's eyes. John turned his head hoping to loosen the muscles that were still tight with stress. While his performance hadn't suffered because of it, he was feeling his age.

"John, I'm serious. This is purely based on merit. Your record is flawless. It is well deserved and once you complete the training you will qualify for another promotion to the rank of Lt. Colonel." Sholto insisted meeting his eyes evenly. John paused for a moment as he considered the offer. Even within the military, there was a great deal secrecy surrounding the 22 SAS Regiment. The training was brutal and included specialization in one of four different areas depending on the troop assignment. Boat which were maritime specialists, Air which included both HALO and HAHO specialists, Mobility were experts in desert warfare with advanced training in mechanics and Mountain which were experts in arctic warfare. There was also an anti-hijacking counterterrorism team. John knew more about SAS than most as he had worked with a team during his last deployment to Afghanistan during operation HERRICK before being shot in the shoulder leading to his medical discharge. What the hell, John thought. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

"All right, James. I'll do it. I can only hope that I can meet the high expectations." John replied hoping that he wouldn't regret his decision.

"I have complete faith in you. The training starts next week. It's been an honor John." James assured confidently but his eyes couldn't completely mask his sadness.


	12. Chapter 12

Within the Web

Serbia

Sherlock

Sherlock bit back a scream as pain tore through him again. His scalp burned as his hair was pulled and pain erupted as he felt his nasal bones break under the most recent assault from the brass knuckles of his assailant. He had lost track of time since the torture had begun. He could taste the bitter tang of cooper and iron as the blood from his nose poured down his throat as his head was tilted back. He had to struggle to open his eyes, as his eyelids were nearly swollen shut.

He had gotten sloppy. The finish line was within sight. Sherlock had been rushing in order to return to John. There was only one thread left. Sebastian Moran. Sherlock had used every resource available to him. He had called in favors, even going so far as to utilize some of Mycroft's contacts, though he loathed being in his brother's debt, John was worth it. John, Sherlock thought as he let his eyes slip shut. Mycroft had confirmed that he had begun training with SAS. Sherlock's chest tightened at the thought. It was bad enough that John had reenlisted as a full combatant, but SAS was even more dangerous. The likelihood of him being injured or killed was now exponentially higher.

Sherlock had been ruthless in his objective. He must take apart the web. He had sacrificed everything. Not only his freedom and reputation, but also his body and mind. He pushed himself relentlessly. He barely ate and hardly slept. All of these factors had led to his capture and now, it seemed, that he may pay with his life. Sherlock felt regret overtake him for a moment. Not for himself, but for John. He had failed not only himself, but John as well. He would never see John again.

Sherlock was ripped from his thoughts once again by a familiar voice. The language was Serbian, but that voice was unmistakable. Mycroft. Sherlock forced his eyes opened and could just barely make out the blurry form of his brother in full disguise, nearly unrecognizable. Sherlock felt a brief flaring of surprise and begrudging approval at his brother's actions. Mycroft had finally gotten off his fat arse and gotten his hands dirty, albeit delayed. "Sherlock, you had one job, you know that I despise legwork." Sherlock groaned as he was roughly pulled up and dragged out of the prison.

"How long?" Sherlock ground out as Mycroft continued to lead him away from his enemies.

"As long as necessary." Mycroft answered coldly. Sherlock sneered and spat an angry retort.

"No, I wasn't referring to the length of the mission, but rather, how long did you stand idle watching me being tortured before you finally intervened. Admit it, you were enjoying it."

"Nonsense." Mycroft denied briskly. "I couldn't risk giving myself away."

"Definitely, enjoying it." Sherlock replied. "Just remember, brother, if I die then the mission will never be completed."

Mycroft then had the nerve to laugh, but it was cold and detached. He looked Sherlock straight in the eye and Sherlock could barely repress a shudder at his response delivered in an utterly detached voice. It was not a threat, but a promise.

"While I am able to appreciate that the situation that you had found yourself in was far from ideal, it was of your own making, Sherlock. In your haste, you grew careless. Sentiment is clouding your judgment. I grow weary of cleaning up your messes. None of this is ideal, but we had very little to work with and the fact that both you and John are still breathing is, one must surely see, a miracle in no small order. I do not expect your gratitude, but I do expect your cooperation. You know what you need to do."

"One thread left, Mycroft. That's it, Moran." Sherlock answered in a hoarse voice full of emotion. "I can't lose him, Myc. Not now. Not when I'm this close. Mycroft's cold glare softened and Sherlock could see sympathy and pity in his eyes.

"I'm doing my best to protect him, Sherlock. I truly am, but there are limits to my influence." Mycroft admitted with a sigh. "Finish the job, brother, but do it right. You cannot afford any more missteps. You're nearly there." Mycroft insisted before turning away and disappearing into the shadows of night leaving Sherlock both enraged and helpless.

Meanwhile in Afghanistan

John

John waited and watched with his eye in the scope squinting as the wind kicked up grains of sand significantly reducing the visibility. Recon training was equal parts patience and precision. John spotted the barest movement amongst the dunes. He pulled the trigger. The red paint marked the target's chest right over the heart, a kill shot. John smirked when he caught of glimpse of the soldier's scowling face. Peter Small. Small looked around angrily for his assassin. "Should've guessed." Small shouted in his direction when he caught sight of John. John only winked at his victim. John's thought's briefly drifted back to the day that they had met.

"Peter Small." The recruit said with a firm handshake and a smile. He was young and much too fresh faced, with blond hair and blue eyes, like John, but without a trace of grey or a wrinkle in sight. Most would right him off as green, but John knew better than that. John had learned never to judge a book by its cover. There had to be good reason for him to be here. Applicants for SAS training were the best of the best and thoroughly vetted. John couldn't help but feel a bit old and worn out looking at his fellow soldier though.

"John Watson." John replied with a small smile of his own.

"Bit long in the tooth for this?" The young recruit asked with a teasing wink.

"Are you always this forward, or did I just get lucky?" John shot back with a smirk.

"Aye, I never had much of a filter, I've been in the brig more times than I can count; but make no mistake, I've got the skills to back up my mouth. How about you, old man?" John couldn't hold back a laugh at the man's teasing.

"You don't get to be my age without learning a few tricks." John replied easily.

"Let me guess. You're an adrenaline junkie, without a doubt, but it's more than that." Small theorized. "Atypical background, you've got the bearing of a solider, but you're opened and approachable, almost to a fault. You're constantly on the look out, not only for yourself, but for others as well. Protective. Medical background?" John's jaw dropped in surprise and his throat tightened as he was reminded of Sherlock. He closed his eyes tightly and pinched the bridge of his nose pushing the thoughts of his friend back before he broke down in front of a perfect stranger. The smile on Small's face vanished when he realized that he might have stumbled into an emotional minefield unknowingly. "Sorry, mate. I didn't mean to upset you…well, I did warn you, and my mouth gets me into trouble. If it's any consolation, everyone has demons and I'm no acceptation." The young man's eyes turned serious and John could see the pain in them and they were not the eyes of a fresh-faced kid, but of a man who had seen too much and was wise behind his years.

"I know you didn't mean any harm, you just reminded me of someone I lost just then. Mad genius, he could deduce just about anything." John murmured softly before thinking better of it. Small's eyes shone with sympathy and he replied in a voice rough with emotion.

"Killed in action…I know about that. My entire troop was ambushed and the blast left every one besides Sholto and myself dead. Talk about survivor's guilt." Small admitted causing John's jaw to drop once again in shock. What were the odds?

"James Sholto?" John asked in disbelief.

"Aye? You know him?" Small asked in a surprised voice.

"He was my CO. He recommended me for training." John explained taking in Small's shocked face.

"Bloody hell." Small murmured looking haunted.

"Watson! Change up." The command pulled John from his memories and he was thrust back into the present.

"I owe you one, crack shot." Small murmured as they passed each other and Small was given his rifle as John attempted to fade into the background. The hunter now became the hunted. John's eyes his focused on his target; the mock barracks. His goal was to make it by the sniper without a hit.

As John settled into undercover, he caught a glimpse of movement. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the shape of a woman in a modest traditional dress with a headscarf. John nearly missed her at first. He was ready to move on with the exercise before he looked a bit closer. She looked familiar and for a moment he was sure that he has seen her before, but he can't remember when and where. John squinted trying to get a better look hoping to jog his memory. The woman was pale, much too pale. Porcelain skin with eyes as light as the sky. She didn't belong. Before John could contemplate about her further, a shot came dangerously close, nearly hitting him and taking him by surprise.

"Keep your head up, Watson." John murmured to himself focusing his attention back to the task at hand.


	13. Chapter 13

Back from the Other Side

One month later

Mycroft

Mycroft returned home exhausted from his undercover mission to extract Sherlock followed immediately by NATO meetings in Belgium and the G7 summit in Sicily. The later two, he considered successful, after all, diplomacy was always an area in which he excelled. Mycroft could navigate the minefield that was foreign policy with his eyes closed, but he could only hope that all his effort had not been in vain regarding his brother and that Sherlock would heed his words and focus on completing the mission. Moran must be dealt with. Mycroft sighed he checked his messages. His brow furrowed when he found nothing from his military contact regarding John Watson. Peter Small had been serving as his eyes and ears during John's training, which was nearly complete. Radio silence never boded well in Mycroft's opinion. As if reading his mind, a text from Anthea came through. "Bollocks!" Mycroft hissed the words CODE RED appeared. His phone rung a moment later and he quickly answered. "Status?"

"Sir, bad news. John's unit was ambushed and there were no survivors retrieved. Those that were not immediately killed were taken as POW's and we have been unable to locate them." Anthea said. "I'm sorry." Her voice shook with emotion. She knew how serious this was.

"Was John among the dead?" Mycroft asked clinging to the hope that they may have a prayer of getting to him before it was too late.

"We did not identify him. We assume that both he and Small were take prisoner." Anthea explained. Mycroft grit his teeth. Afghanistan was becoming more destabilized as ISIS continued to radicalize recruits. Nowhere was safe. Extremist were targeting schools, hospitals, and other highly populated civilian areas. Troops were being spread thinner unable to handle the strain. It was not just combat troops that were affected at this point either; both the RAMC and RCL were being deployed to help the situation, which was quickly reaching crisis levels. It went beyond traditional combat. Ambushes, like the one that Anthea had described, were becoming more frequent. They were losing more troops to attacks, and soldiers, those that were not immediately killed were going missing assumed to be either AWOL or POW's.

This did not bode well. Mycroft debated over whether to tell Sherlock immediately. Ethically, he should. But Mycroft knew that Sherlock would abandon the mission as soon as he found out. Sherlock was close, how close was hard to say, but if he could hold off for a little while, Sherlock may complete his task. Mycroft knew that Sherlock may never forgive him, but there was nothing that his brother could do for John Watson at the moment. Mycroft twisted the gold band on his right ring finger anxiously as Anthea posed the question, which he had been internally debating. "What do we tell Sherlock?"

"Nothing." Mycroft answered. Anthea paused clearing her throat before replying in a soft voice filled with worry.

"Mycroft, this may cross a redline for him. There will likely be no coming back from this if he ever learns the truth. Are you sure you want to risk it?" Mycroft sighed deeply before answering.

"One week. I'll give him one week and then I'll tell him." Mycroft promised hoping that he would live to regret his choice.

Meanwhile in Afghanistan

John

John groaned as he finally regained consciousness. There was a dull throb in his head and he hissed as he attempted to open his eyes only to slam them shut again as the light caused the dull ache to magnify into a relentless stabbing pain. He was most likely concussed. If he was being completely honest, John was surprised that he was still alive. He had fought like the devil as his captors carted him away, fully expecting to be killed for his insolence. However, instead of a fatal shot that he had expected, he had received a blunt blow to the head with the barrel of a rifle, knocking him unconscious. John took a few steadying breaths before trying again. This time he was more cautious as he slowly opened his eyes. It took a few seconds to focus as his vision tunneled for a moment then blurry images slowly sharpened. He was lying on his right side on a hot dirt floor in a holding cell. There was a single bulb dull yellow bulb burning that barely illuminated the surroundings.

John slowly tried to raise himself up, his left shoulder ached in protest. He only made it a few inches before he came to an abrupt halt. He could only raise his wrists a few inches off the ground. They were cuffed and chained to metal stakes in the ground.

John shuffled around until he was sitting with his legs stretched opened with his wrists between them. He ran his fingers around the links in the handcuffs looking for weaknesses, but there were none which he could detect; the cuffs were on tight and there was no hope of slipping either of his hands through. He was pulled from his task by the echo of footsteps.

A figure appeared hidden in the shadows of the prison. "Look what the cat finally dragged in. Major John H. Watson, MD. I went to a lot of trouble tracking you down." The man moved closer and John caught a glimpse of his face, but didn't immediately recognize him. The man smiled at him, but it wasn't a pleasant smile, it had an edge of sharpness to it. But what disturbed John more, were the man's eyes. John had seen the worst of the worst in humanity. The cold madness lying within them was chilling making him look all-consuming, as a black hole. For a moment John was reminded of James Moriarty. John's steeled himself as the man spoke again.

"Well, hello Johnny, may I call you Johnny?" John grit his teeth as he was called by his childhood nickname. It was a name only spoken to him by his mother and Harry when they were feeling sentimental. The sound of that name on this man's tongue turned John's stomach. "I've been wanting to properly meet you for the longest time." He confessed.

John looked up calmly at the man giving away nothing and replied "You seem to have me at a disadvantage, who are you?"

The man chuckled dryly. "How rude of me, Sebastian Moran." He elaborated with a wink. "And like I said I have been waiting years for this moment."

The name sets off alarm bells in John's mind, but he calmly replied. "What are you talking about? I don't even know you." But that was a lie, John knew quite a bit about this man. There had been whispers throughout his training with SAS about blackop agents that had gone rogue. They were loyal to no one and faded into obscurity becoming ghosts. A name that had come up again and again was Colonel Sebastian Moran. AWOL for years, leaving no trace of evidence, besides a path of destruction in his wake. He was wanted by multiple government agencies for everything from murder to treason to espionage.

"Ah, but I know you, I might not have known your name at the time, but you and I have a history. You are quite familiar to me." He snarled, his mood changing quickly from falsely cordial to deadly as he paced around John. "You've been a bad boy Johnny, messing up our plans, plans that we worked on for years. We worked so hard to bring down Sherlock Holmes and what happened. You. Always saving the day at the last moment, first with the cabbie and then at the pool. I should have shot you then when I had the chance. Now James Moriarty is dead." Moran growled as he shoved a picture into John's face. James Moriarty's lifeless eyes stare back at him and the distinctive blood splatter pattern around him makes it evident that to John that he had eaten a bullet. John stared at Moran in confusion and taking in his expression, Moran began to laugh maniacally.

Moran whistled sharply and another stranger entered the room standing in front of him. Moran made a gesture that John couldn't see and John cried out suddenly as he was jerked up into the air by the torso wrenching his bad shoulder. He couldn't help the cry that escaped his lips as he felt his bones bend in protest. "Funny how fate works, isn't it, Johnny? Imagine the odds, you could almost call it destiny. You were in the Unit back in Helmand during operation Achilles. Ring a bell? You know, the one that I was using as target practice. Such a shame that you moved just as I shot you or else you would have died and in that desert and saved me a lot of trouble; even so this nearly killed you, infection set in, major nerve damage." Moran surmised as he made his way to stand in front of John and lifted his hand to touch the distinctive starburst scar pattern left in the bullet's wake. "Nevertheless, what's done is done. It's a miracle you survived." Moran insisted and then pressed his fingers into the tender tissue causing John to grunt from the sudden flare of pain. John suddenly felt sick as he saw the glee in Moran's eyes as he pushed harder digging and twisting causing John to hiss through gritted teeth. "You've caused me nothing but trouble and I'd like nothing more than to kill you, but not until I get what I want. Until then, John Watson, I'll leave you at their mercy."

"Isolation during the first round of treatments, over 50% die after the first round. No use exposing him to the general prison population if he dies immediately." The man murmured in Pashto. "I don't understand why Moran has taken such an interest in this one, he's old, injured and the chances of him surviving are slim to none."

"We have our orders." His companion replied pulling a syringe out of his pocket and plunging it into John's bicep before he could so much as protest. The room began to spin and his vision blurred and John wondered what would become of him as he slipped under the veil of sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

London Bridge is Falling Down

Greg Lestrade

One week later

"DI Lestrade, you bloody bastard!" Greg's head whipped around and Molly's snapped up from the table in the morgue where she was currently finishing up an autopsy. Greg stiffened as a blonde woman came charging at him looking ready to kill. "MIA!"

"Madame, calm down. Who are you and how did you get in here?" Greg said bracing for an altercation.

"Take a wild guess!" she dared. Her words were slurred and she was unsteady. Greg frowned looking her over. He didn't recognize this woman. Her shoulder length sandy blonde hair was flying everywhere. Her blue eyes burned with fury and her face was flushed red with anger and likely alcohol, he could smell it on her.

"Greg, do you know this woman?" Molly asked sounding quite angry herself. Greg shook his head in denial, but before he could get another word out the woman turned on Molly.

"You must be Dr. Hooper. Don't worry; Detective Lestrade and I aren't screwing. I don't swing that way. You've finally moved on from pining over the late great detective Sherlock Holmes, I see. Took what you could get, did you?" The woman spat with a sneer in Greg's direction. Molly frowned and pressed her lips tightly together and clenching her fists.

"Watch it, lady." Greg warned in a no nonsense tone stepping in front of Molly.

The woman seemed to deflate, her anger draining away. "Where were both of you when Johnny needed you?"

"You're John's sister, Harriet Watson." Greg confirmed. Molly's anger was suddenly replaced by horror.

"Johnny's MIA, presumed dead." She blurted out in a sorrowful voice. "You know that woman, Anthea, the one who works for the all powerful Mycroft Holmes. The same one, who refused to give me any information when Johnny was alive, had the nerve to call me to tell me that he was missing and presumed dead. I never got to talk to him and tell him I'm sorry and that I love him! You all took that from me!"

"Sherlock…Oh bollock's." Molly murmured softly causing Greg to frown in confusion.

"Sherlock's dead, Moll's, what does that have to do with John?" Greg asked his mind running through a few different scenarios.

"Nothing!" Molly blurted out, but Greg can tell that is much more than that. Her eyes drifted down and her cheeks flushed with shame. She's a terrible liar.

Before Greg can press her, Harriet interjected. "Whatever it is you know, you had better spill it or you'll be sorry. You're looking at a woman with nothing to lose."

Molly blanched and Greg snapped. "Don't threaten her!"

"Sherlock's alive." Molly whispered causing both Greg and Harriet's jaws to drop in shock.

"What! Impossible, he jumped off the roof at Bart's, no one could survive that." Greg exclaimed.

"I helped…fake his death. I supplied a body signed a fraudulent death certificate. I risked everything. It was killing me keeping it inside, but Mycroft said that the mission must come first." Molly rushed to explain. "Moriarty's reach was vast and Sherlock had to take the web apart."

"That bloody bastard! I'll kill him. I'll kill both of them, Sherlock and his brother. If it weren't for them, Johnny would be alive right now." Harriet seethed.

Greg didn't know what to think, but suddenly things made a hell of a lot more sense. Sherlock's suicide was a front and Mycroft had pulled strings in order to allow John to reenlist. The question was why had Mycroft done it? John certainly would have been safer in London and Sherlock would have been far less likely to be distracted from his mission knowing that John was safe. "I'm calling Mycroft." Greg said as he pulled out his phone before Molly could protest.

Much to Greg's surprise Mycroft not only answered but also addressed him by name. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Greg smirked for as polite as the words were the tone was glacial. Greg took a deep breath praying that he wouldn't live to regret this.

"Why? Why did you do it Mycroft? I grieved for him; John grieved for him! I know you'll try to justify it, the cloak and dagger rubbish. I can almost forgive you for that. John would have never stayed put knowing Sherlock was alive and working alone. He would have followed him to the ends of the earth, so I get that part. As much as I loathe it, I understand. What I truly don't understand is why you would allow John to reenlist?"

Silence, for a moment Greg didn't think that he was going to get an answer, but then Mycroft spoke in the same chilly tone. "I'll tell you the same thing that I told Sherlock. After the funeral, he was distraught, more than distraught, suicidal. I offered him a distraction from his grief and he took it. I did it to save him from himself. I did not wish him harm and hoped that he would live long enough for Sherlock to complete the mission and return. Unfortunately, Sherlock was too late." Greg swallowed and his eyes squeezed shut. He wanted to call Mycroft a lair. But deep down, he knew the man spoke the truth

"Does he know, Sherlock, that John is MIA?" Greg asked dreading the answer. Mycroft sighed.

"Yes, I told him today. He was not pleased. I fear that he may abandon the mission. I rarely regret my choices but fear that this time I made the wrong one." Mycroft admitted. Greg could only imagine how badly that conversation must have gone. He did not envy Mycroft.

"Anything I can do to help?" Greg asked. To his surprise, Mycroft offered a request.

"Keep your eyes and ears opened, Sherlock may surface in order to call in favors from a any number of his contacts. Watch your step, there is still one thread left in Moriarty's web left unaccounted for."

"Will do." Greg promised.


	15. Chapter 15

Nowhere to Run

Sherlock

"I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion, but I was there for you before and I'll be there for you again." Mycroft promised as Sherlock struggled to breathe. John. God, John. MIA. His vision tunneled and Sherlock fell deep into his mind palace and out of the shadows, something surfaced.

The verse echoed through Sherlock's mind. "Very well, said the merchant, I give in. I am yours. But tell me, why did you look surprised this morning when you saw me in Baghdad? Because, said death, I had an appointment with you tonight, in Samara." Sherlock murmured.

"Appointment in Samara, the merchant who can't outrun death. You always hated that story as a child." Mycroft replied sounding perplexed.

"Death waits for us all in Samara, but can Samara be avoided?" Sherlock probed. Mycroft sighed before he replied.

"My contact for John is missing as well, Sherlock. I'm flying blind." Mycroft admitted reluctantly. "I can only tell you his last known whereabouts, Kandahar. The rest is up to you. Narrow it down."

"Then I know what I have to do, brother mine." Sherlock whispered cutting the call before Mycroft could utter another word in protest. John, Sherlock needed to know what happened to John, whether he was dead or alive. Kandahar. That would be his starting point. That was all that Mycroft was able to give him, the last known whereabouts of John's SAS training unit. Not much to go on, but Sherlock didn't need much. It was time to start calling in the few favors that he had left. Sherlock dialed and Irene's Adler's voice greeted him.

"Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead? You've become a ghost, like me." She whispered.

"I need your help. I don't have much time." Sherlock pleaded.

"I owe you my life. I'll do anything in my power to help you." She replied. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. "But tell me, what is that I can do for you that your other contacts can't?"

"John's reenlisted. He was stationed Afghanistan, his last known location was Kandahar, before his troop went MIA during an ambush by ISIS. No body was retrieved. I have to know what happened. I have to know if he is dead or alive." Sherlock explained as his throat tightened with emotion. "I always assumed that love was a dangerous disadvantage, chemical defect, human error. Thank you for the final proof." Sherlock murmured softly to himself.

"Oh, Sherlock….the odds; they're not good, assuming that John is even still alive." Irene replied. "There are rumors of POW camps, but they are well hidden and not one has been uncovered. I could use my skills to trade information with the enemy. After all, men tend to reveal all kinds of things in the throes of passion, but if I am caught, I am as good as dead. Prostitution is a capital offense here." She explained.

Sherlock was silent for a moment weighing her words before he answered. "I have to know." He repeated and continued. "I'll be on a flight tomorrow."

"I'll put things in motion, but I can't make any promises." Irene replied.

Sherlock cut the call and squeezed the phone in frustration. His worst fears were coming to pass. After taking a few deep breaths, he dialed again. "Sherlock?" Molly Hooper's voice wavered uncertainly.

"You were right. I'm not OK." Sherlock whispered in a voice that shook with emotion. "I need to know what happened to John. I have to look, but I think I'm going to die. I need you, if I go missing…"

"What are you planning to do Sherlock? Just go out on your own guns blazing? Alone?" Molly demanded.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." Sherlock whispered.

Molly grit her teeth and demanded. "What's going to kill you?"

"Human Error." Sherlock answered without pausing to think.

"You have to control the pain!" Molly pleaded. "You aren't thinking clearly."

"I can't." Sherlock admitted his chest tightened at the admission realizing how far he has fallen.

"You need to focus!" Molly shouted in frustration feeling helpless knowing that nothing would stop Sherlock from going to the end of the earth for John, not even the threat of death. She offered an olive branch sensing a losing game when she saw one. "What can I do?"


	16. Chapter 16

Appearances can be Deceiving

Anthea

Anthea frowned as she looked down at her phone's display. Someone had sent her a text from an unknown number. Need your help involves Sherlock Holmes. Anthea bit her lip in anger. Dr. Molly Hooper. She was the only one besides Mycroft and herself that knew that Sherlock was still alive. Anthea had urged Mycroft not to involve her. She was too emotionally invested in Sherlock and couldn't be objective, but Mycroft had vetoed her suggestion. Now, it appeared that his decision may come back to haunt him, much like his brother always seemed to. Mycroft's baby brother, the now infamous Sherlock Holmes, was one of Mycroft's few weaknesses. Despite their constant bickering, and constant posturing in a never ending power struggle, there was a genuine, if not love, then minimally, respect and brotherly concern. Over the years, Anthea had attempted to get the whole story of their difficult relationship, but to this day she only knew bits and pieces. Sherlock Holmes was truly an enigma, yet not nearly as mystifying as Mycroft Holmes. Her eyes drifted to slim gold band on her right ring finger.

The first time that she informally met Mycroft Holmes, he was a senior agent at SIS. He had worked within both MI5 and MI6 moving effortlessly between the two departments and had developed a flawless reputation. She had been an intern just out of University. She had nearly tripped as she stared at him not paying attention to where she was going. He had been stunning; impeccably dressed with wavy auburn hair and dark blue eyes and though his aquiline nose was a bit severe, it only emphasized his regal presence and air of authority. She knew at that first moment with just one look that she was hopelessly smitten. Try as she might, she never saw him again at Vauxhall. He transferred into a high level position in parliament. Though if one were foolish enough to ask what his job involved, his reply would be simple servant or minor position in the British government, though nothing could be further from the truth. Mycroft Holmes soon became one of the most powerful and influential people in all of Great Britain. There were rumors that he was untouchable, cold, calculating, and ambitious to a fault earning him the nickname iceman. Despite it all, she never forgot him though. She worked her way up at MI6 as an agent developing a number of invaluable skills.

It was after the 7/7 bombing's, which left 52 dead and hundreds more injured that their paths crossed again. Anthea had been the lead agent on the counterterrorism unit set up after the incident. They had taken in a number of suspects but were still looking for other encompasses. As she was looking over one of the many crime scenes in central London looking at the remains of the bomb that was used, he had appeared taking her completely by surprise. "Four total consisting of homemade organic peroxide-based devices in backpacks." The posh accent screamed public school and Anthea had been ready to tell the onlooker off, but when she turned around the words died in her throat. It had been years since she had seen him in person, but he still made her heart race. Mycroft Holmes stood before her. "Elizabeth Anthea Coulter, I'm familiar with your work." His appearance had been flawless, as always. He was perfectly put together in a bespoke suit, designer shoes and carried a custom umbrella. Anthea nodded stiffly still at a loss for words as her heart continued to race. Before she could respond, his attention was stolen by the frantic voice of a dark haired Sergeant in hot pursuit of a tall, dark haired man with mop of riotous curls and silver eyes heading right towards them.

"Sherlock!" The sergeant shouted. "Bloody wanker! I swear if you interfere with this investigation, it'll be the last crime scene that you'll ever see. Mycroft sighed loudly as he glared at the two men quickly approaching them.

"Sergeant Lestrade, good to see you again." The Sergeant nodded and glanced at the dark haired man who was frowning deeply at Mycroft who then looked in his direction and addressed him. "Another case cracked, how very public spirited. Though that's never really your motivation, is it?" Mycroft asked the man in a sarcastic voice causing her to frown in confusion. The dynamic between them was hard to describe.

"What are you doing here?" The man retorted with a sneer at Mycroft.

"That should be obvious. This is a matter of national security. That, and I knew you would show up. I couldn't allow you to run wild over this investigation. I'm also concerned about you." Mycroft replied.

"Yes, I've been hearing about you concern." The man snapped with a glare in the sergeant's direction who flushed under the scrutiny.

"Always so aggressive. Did it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?" Mycroft inquired with a sigh.

"Oddly enough, no." The man answered sharply.

"We have more in common than you'd like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer and you know how it always upset Mummy."

"I upset her? Me? It wasn't me that upset her Mycroft! Try not to start a war before I get home you know what it does to the traffic." The man snapped before turning his back to them and stomping away angrily.

Anthea's eyes widened in shock. Mummy? Brothers? It couldn't be. "He's always been so resentful." Mycroft murmured under his breath with a glance in her direction. "That, never ending problem, was my brother, Sherlock William Scott Holmes." Mycroft clarified. Anthea merely raised an eyebrow unsure of what was expected of her. "I could use someone with your unique skill set under my direct employ. Are you interested?" He asked looking directly at her as his eyes slid over her quickly and silently assessing her. He seemed confident in her answer, as he looked her over clinically.

"I would relish the opportunity, Mr. Holmes." She replied with a professional smile and it was true this was a once in a lifetime offer and she was not about to turn it down.

"Excellent, Ms. Coulter. May I call you Anthea? It offers more anonymity." He asked. She nodded wondering just what she was getting herself into.

Anthea was pulled from her thoughts as her phone buzzed with another text. Anthea was unsurprised when she saw Mycroft's number.

The package is in transit. Retrieval may be necessary.

Copy, please advise. Anthea answered deciding that if fieldwork was necessary. This time she would insist on accompanying Mycroft Holmes.


	17. Chapter 17

Under Lock and Key

John

John Watson was dead. The weakest and most immoral part of himself was still there, because he was still alive, but he was just an empty shell, a former shadow of the solider and physician who had protected the crown. He had fallen and was now defeated and powerless. He should have ended it when he had the chance. A pair of blue eyes opened in a pitch-black room, but there were not any emotions in them. Those eyes were empty. He was empty. Death, he prayed for it, yet it still remained elusive.

Time blurred into itself. John had stopped trying to keep track of it. He drifted in and out of consciousness in a seemingly endless cycle as the drugs, which were being pumped into him, took effect in peaks and troughs. As far as he was concerned, John Watson was dead. Not literally, of course. John would see death as a blessing at this point. The weakest and most immoral part of him was still there, because he was, despite all of his prayers for death, still alive. Death would be a reprieve.

He looked around the dark empty cell. He was restrained on a stretcher. John could feel the nasogastric tube irritating his nose as enteral feedings were pumped into his stomach. The IV in his arm was well secured in order to avoid him dislodging it. John could feel the soiled diaper chafe at his skin and swallowed his humiliation. It wouldn't be long before the men came with more drugs and John would slip back under. John moaned as his abdomen cramped viciously. The sharp pain distracted him from the near constant bone deep aches in his hips and pelvis. John nearly gagged as he caught a whiff of his own urine and feces. He pulled against the leather restraints but made no progress. His muscles had atrophied to the point of near uselessness. He was weak as a kitten. John licked his chapped lips. Thirsty, he was so thirsty. His senses were all over the place. The drugs, it must be the drugs. John thought, as the sound of his own breathing and heartbeat seemed to magnify in his ears along with the steady hum of the infusion pumps. The room was still nearly pitch black but John could still see clearly, but the colors were off. It was as if he were wearing night vision goggles. Hallucinating. John rationalized.

John then heard his jailer's footsteps. The men, as expected, were in possession of a syringe and the medication which the syringe contained was quickly emptied into John's IV. John heard one murmur in Pashto "Hard to believe that he has lived thirty days. Phase one is complete on to phase two." The pain floated away as the medication took effect. John struggled to stay awake as the drugs threatened to pull him back under. His heart rate doubled as he felt the restraints being removed. He gagged as the Nasogastric tube was pulled out and whimpered in relief as the soiled diaper was changed. "Type II," one of the men said briskly as he cleaned John's genitals. John looked down at himself and frowned. His penis and testicles looked smaller, much smaller. His pubic hair was now thin and downy. The thought fluttered away and John sighed in relief as a clean diaper was applied and the sting of a needle pierced his buttocks. He blinked blurrily as he fought sleep. This medication was different, rather than knocking him out completely, he just felt sleepy and very relaxed. Most likely a narcotic like morphine in combination with a benzodiazepine like valium. John struggled to swallow and moisten his parched throat.

"Water," John pleaded in a voice hoarse with disuse and to his shock an ice chip was placed between his lips. John sucked on it greedily and it dissolved almost immediately. The men sat him up which caused a wave of vertigo to overtake him causing him to retch and vomit up a small amount of the enteral feedings, which had been infusing into the NG tube. John couldn't stop the moan that escaped as his stomach gurgled ominously and the foul smell of feces once again permeated the room. Before John could say anything more, the diaper was replaced with a clean one.

"Should stop once he is back on solids." The other man predicted referring to the diarrhea. "Up!" the man ordered in Pashto and John was hoisted off the stretcher and onto his feet forcing him to stand for the first time since he was placed in the prison. John's knees buckled too weak to hold himself up and he could not hold back a scream as excoriating pain in his hips and pelvis nearly took his breath away. Broken, something must be broken.

"Please! My hips, I think I have a broken pelvis." John begged.

"Walk, bones still growing and shifting, tender and fragile, muscles stiff. Move; it will help the pain." The man advised. John whimpered unsure if he had heard the man right. Before he was able to ask the man what he meant, he was once again pulled to his feet, but this time the man helped support his weight and John cautiously took a step forward.

Sharp pain still shot through his hips and pelvis, but it was improved with the added support. His muscles tightened still stiff and weak from disuse, but he was able to slowly move forward. The man was right, and his stiff muscles loosened with the activity and the sharp pains faded to a bone deep ache, still unpleasant, but tolerable. John moved carefully as the men led him out of the cell. John moved through the dark hallway slowly and his nose wrinkled a strange smell assaulted him. It was hard to describe like a combination of sweat, and something that John can't quite place, but it made him feel hot and needy. "Here!" The man pointed nudging John into the cell. John's breath caught when he got a good look at the cells occupant. "Bill? Bill Murray?" John whispered still not believing his eyes.


	18. Chapter 18

Behind Enemy Lines

Murray

"Yes. John? Captain John Watson? Is that you?" Murray asked in disbelief. John nodded obviously still in shock. Murray's eyes swept over him critically taking in John's haggard appearance. He was unsurprised at his current state of ill health. His blonde hair was filthy, his complexion pale and his cheekbones and ribs stood out starkly from his emaciated frame. He was unsteady and his speech slurred ever so slightly, clear evidence that he drugs in his system had yet to be fully metabolized.

"How long Bill? How long have you been here?" John asked in a voice hoarse from disuse, squinting and studying him closely no doubt noticing that he too seemed different. It wasn't just the haunted look in Murray's eyes from the captivity, but it was physical as well. He was smaller, weaker and looked even younger. Bill held no illusions of what he had become, a failed experiment, collateral damage.

"It's hard to know for sure, but if I had to guess, three months." Murray confessed in a voice that was barely audible. His eyes darted around looking for captors. They were never far. Murray stifled a moan as his stomach cramped brutally followed by a hot flash. He could feel perspiration begin to coat his body. It was always hot in this godforsaken place, but this was different, more intense. A storm was brewing. There wasn't much time. He needed to warn John before it was too late.

"How many?" John asked as he tried to take it all in. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head obviously trying to shake off the lingering effects of the sedatives.

"Over a hundred prisoners in this camp alone, with more than double that number of captors." Murray clarified in a soft murmur. "John…Something's going on here, something sinister. This is more than first meets the eye." Murray continued leaving John looking confused.

"How so?" John asked still trying to clear his head. He carefully sat down and couldn't stifle a moan as his hips and pelvis protested at the change in position. Murray's eyes darkened as he took a deep breath catching a hint of something familiar. Murray looked at John more closely and his nostrils flared.

"Type II" Murray whispered under his breath. "I'm sorry. God, John. I'm so sorry."

"What?" John asked his confusion only worsened as he recalled one of the captors uttering that phrase before leading him to the cell.

"You're type II. So am I." Murray ground out in a choked whisper. "I don't have long, I think it starting. Neither will you…if you're type II, you disappear, but not before. Oh God…" He trailed off unable to calm the panic, that was quickly overtaking him as John interjected.

"Bill, calm down. You're not making sense. What the hell is going on here?" John asked looking more unsettled by the minute despite his weakened state adrenaline was spiking causing a fight or flight response.

Murray took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down before he continued. "Sorry…I'm not…I'll start again, at the beginning. RAMC deployed a number of units, mine included, to the area to help ease the strain caused by the increase in ISIS insurgents. We initially were here to treat both military personnel and civilians wounded in the frequent attacks. Like so many others, our field station was ambushed. It didn't matter that we were treating civilians at the time or that we were all unarmed medical personnel. They slaughtered us like sheep. Those that weren't killed instantly were taken to prisons like the one that we currently find ourselves in." Murray stopped to take a breath and John nodded slightly waiting patiently for him to continue.

"The drugs John, they aren't just for sedation. They are experimenting. Those that don't die immediately after their first round of treatments are isolated for about a month during which time they are given a cocktail of drugs leading to a number of changes. There are two types of changes that may occur. Type I codename Alpha or Type II codename Omega. I don't know all of the details, but according to rumor they are trying to engineer a super solider. Type I or Alpha's have the traits that they find desirable including increased stamina, increased strength and muscle mass, high levels testosterone leading to increased aggression and sex drive, and lastly increased acuity of all five senses. In Type II or Omega's quite the opposite effects seem to take place including decreased stamina, strength, and muscle mass, as well as significant drops in testosterone levels, leading to more docile behavior. The only advantage that Omegas seem to gain is increased logic and problem solving ability as well as increased acuity in all five senses, which isn't much use to them as soldiers, Omega's become utterly disposable. Once the treatments start, there is no stopping it. The changes; they have yet to control which subjects become Alpha and Omega."

Murray looked at John's face, which had fallen into an unreadable mask. Murray couldn't blame him for his skepticism. After all, he hadn't wanted to believe it at first either. Murray debated about how much more to say. What was coming for him…it was all speculation…but Murray knew his time was close. It was already starting and he would be taken and never seen again. "I'm not crazy. You have no idea how much I wish that this was all a crazy nightmare that I would wake up from, but it's the truth."

"Bill…it's just…well" John trailed off looking bewildered. Crazy. Yes. Bill knew it sounded crazy, but that didn't mean that it wasn't true. Bill stiffened as the sound of footsteps echoed ominously. The captor approached as if sensing his prior thoughts. The cell door opened and Bill was pulled roughly out the door.

"It's starting, time to go." The man whispered in Pashto.

"Stop! Bill!" John protested standing unsteadily moving towards the man. The man sneered at him and slammed the cell door shut before John could do more. Bill looked at his friend knowing that it would be the last time he would ever see him.

"You're next." The man predicted as with a scornful glance in John's direction before Murray was forced deeper into the bowels of the prison and out of sight leaving John alone feeling helpless and nearly hopeless.


	19. Chapter 19

Like a Moth to a Flame

Irene Adler

"Tell me," Irene whispered into the man's ear licking the outer lobe as she caressed the man's body causing him to shudder with arousal. After a month of searching, she had finally found her mark. This man would lead them to the camp where John Watson had been taken prisoner. Sherlock and Irene had so far been able to only get bits and pieces of intel despite Sherlock's deductions and Irene using her sexual prowess to extort information. They were able to confirm that John Watson was indeed alive and being held prisoner, what they had yet to discover is where. But hopefully, after tonight, they would have their answer.

Irene thought back to the day that Sherlock had arrived in Afghanistan. She hadn't recognized him at first. He was a wraith. He looked haggard, emaciated, and sick. "Sherlock…what's happened to you?" She had asked. Sherlock had closed his eyes and taken a deep breath before meeting her stare with eyes that looked haunted.

"It started with Moriarty. He forced my hand. He threatened everything that I held dear, including John. I had to fall, and then I became a ghost and began to take apart his web piece by piece, until there was just one thread left, but I was too late." Sherlock murmured.

Irene squinted and gazed at Sherlock critically. There was emotion burning just below the surface. "You've changed. It's not a game anymore, is it?" There was no malice in the softly spoken words, only sympathy. Sherlock nodded stiffly looking ashamed having his words thrown back at him, albeit kindly.

"This is losing." He whispered in a hoarse voice. "I have to find him." Irene nodded, unwilling to press any further. Irene then moved towards him and whispered in his ear.

"I have a good idea where to start, but I'll need your help." She confided. Then it had begun; they had followed a trail of fruitless leads. Even powerful men had little information on the insurgents and where their secrets lie buried. While she had used lust, Sherlock had used deduction, but it seemed as though they were always one step behind and their time was running out. The longer John remained MIA, they more likely it was that they would find him dead, or not at all. Though Irene would never say it to his face, Sherlock was off his game and it was slowing them down. It seemed as though he was right. Love was a serious disadvantage. But they were close now, oh so close. Irene's was pulled from her thoughts by the man's shout as his body stiffened preparing to climax.

Now was the time to press him. He wasn't thinking of anything besides getting to completion and he would speak without thinking. Irene gripped his erection tightly, effectively halting his orgasm momentarily. "The POW camps, where are they?" She demanded.

"There are many." He ground out between harsh breaths. Not good enough. They hadn't come this far for more evasive answers.

"British Soldiers. I need to know where the British Soldier's were taken." She insisted as the man writhed beneath her.

"I don't know. They are spread out." The man replied. Bloody hell. She had not come this far only to hit another dead end. She pressed on.

"SAS." She prompted as her other hand moved towards his throat. The man's eyes widened as he began to realize that Irene was not what she first appeared to be and that perhaps he was in over his head. "Where are the SAS troops?" She insisted. He shook his head and insisted.

"Don't know." Irene hissed in frustration. It was had all been another waste of time.

"Pity," she murmured as she pulled the 1cc syringe from between her cleavage and jammed it into the man's jugular. He stiffened and them slumped and quickly lost consciousness allowing her to make an escape. Just as Irene was finished dressing her phone chimed with a text. I have a lead. Meet me in Samara-SH

Irene hummed thoughtfully. Hopefully, this lead would prove to be more substantial than the one that she had been chasing. She quickly departed to meet Sherlock.


	20. Chapter 20

Fish out of Water

Molly Hooper

"This is bloody lunacy, Molly. Sherlock Holmes isn't going to be found unless he wants to be." Greg insisted as they moved through the market. Molly sighed and could feel herself blush. Guilt seemed to be piling up from all sides. It seemed as though the more she attempted to help, the more people became trapped in her web of deceit. It had started with Mycroft Holmes, then Sherlock, John and now Greg. She would make it right. She only hoped that more people were not hurt in the process.

When Molly told Greg that she intended to go after Sherlock in Afghanistan, she hadn't told him the whole story. It wasn't surprising that he thought that she was mad. He didn't know about Mycroft's report and assumed that Molly had been ready to embark on a wild goose chase. She hadn't corrected that assumption and had initially tried to convince him to let her go alone, but Greg had been stubborn and insisted that if she was going on a hopeless mission then he wasn't going to allow her to go alone. She knew that if she refused then he would just follow her and that would only make things much more complicated and difficult.

Molly adjusted her sunglasses and tightened the scarf around her head as they moved through the Afghan market. She looked around for her target. The blond woman had been the only constant in Peter Small's reports, yet she remained elusive. Molly had called in the one favor that she had. It was a big one. There were many people that were indebted to Mycroft Holmes, but she was one of the few, which he was beholden to. She had called in her favor that she had earned for her role in faking Sherlock's death. Anthea had given her a hard copy of the reports from Peter Small, Mycroft's contact for John in Afghanistan. He was currently missing, but his reports told a story and Molly was determined to follow it to the end. Sherlock's words still haunted her "I think I'm going to die." Not if she had anything to do with it, she thought viciously. She had agreed to help Sherlock as the guilt over her role in his fall and then ultimately John's reenlistment and capture over took her. She would make it right. It had become a vow, a mantra and she was not about to let anything stand in her way. Molly had hinted at information and Sherlock had quickly deduced the source of her intel. "Mycroft, of course, all other men are specialist, but his specialism is omniscience." Molly's silence was confirmation enough.

Sherlock had asked for the reports, but Anthea had given them to her with strict instructions not to pass them on to Sherlock. They held state secrets and were not to be reproduced or shared in anyway either digitally or by hard copy. Molly had made a decision then that she would not break the rules, but go around them. She would not reproduce those reports or give them to Sherlock. She would also not discuss their content in writing or over then phone. She would meet Sherlock in person and tell him what she knew, but she needed to do some research first. The blond woman was mentioned multiple times in the reports; she was the only constant amongst a sea of variables. Greg's voice pulled her out of her thoughts and back to the present.

"Meet me in Samara." He was looking at his phone with a deep frown on his face. "What the bloody hell does that mean? It's from an unknown number." Molly frowned and bit her lip in frustration. There was only one person that the text could be from, Sherlock. That meant that he knew that Greg was with her. Molly had hoped that she would be able to keep that fact a secret. She should have known better. There were no keeping secrets from Sherlock Holmes.

"He knows Greg. I didn't tell him, but he knows. I'll meet him, you stay here." She insisted. Greg opened his mouth clearly ready to argue, but Molly cut him off before he could get a word out. "No, Greg. Before you even say it, I have to do this alone. It's my fault. I have to make it right. Greg closed his mouth and grit his teeth seething. "I'll be careful." She promised leaving him looking helpless and frustrated. She knew the feeling and could sympathize, but needs must.

Molly moved like a wraith as she finally approached Sherlock in the market. Her eyes widened in surprise as she took in his haggard appearance. It was the first time that she had seen him since the fall and he was barely recognizable. His hair was dull and limp; his normally lithe frame was now emaciated. Dark circles stood out under his eyes, but the most striking change were the eyes themselves. Gone was the cold calculation and in its place was pain and heartache. John Watson had done what Molly had thought impossible capture Sherlock's heart. Her jaw dropped in shock as she glanced beside Sherlock and staring back at her was Irene Adler.

"You were dead on my slab at Bart's. Sherlock identified you. How?" Molly stammered unable to get over the shock of seeing Irene alive and sitting next to Sherlock in this market in Afghanistan. Before she could answer, Sherlock cut her off. The woman merely cocked an eyebrow at her and remained silent.

"You of all people should know that just because there was a body, doesn't qualify as airtight evidence." Sherlock snapped. Molly bit her lip knowing that Sherlock was referring to her role in faking his death. His tone then shifted from accusatory to desperate and anguished "Give it to me, Mycroft's report. Don't you see? We're running out of time. Molly, please!" Molly felt her resolve waver in the face of Sherlock's heartfelt plea.

"I-I promised Mycroft. There are state secrets." Molly stammered as Sherlock continued to stare at her hopefully.

"You have my word, nothing in that report will be disclosed. I need to find him Molly, even if he's dead. I need to bring him home." Sherlock promised sincerely. Molly sighed praying that she wouldn't regret this. Mycroft Holmes was not to be crossed.

"If your brother finds out…" Molly trailed off in a voice heavy with implication.

"He won't, it will be destroyed once I memorize the data." Sherlock assured her. Molly nodded and pulled the report from her rucksack and handed it to Sherlock.

"Thank you." Sherlock whispered in tight voice. "You need to go back to London, both of you, Mycroft has eyes everywhere." Sherlock then pulled his phone from his pocket and made a call.

"Take her home." Sherlock said into his mobile. "Don't bother denying it I know you're here with her. Take her home Lestrade. You are both in over your head."


	21. Chapter 21

Smoke and Mirrors

Irene Adler

Irene watched Molly Hooper go. She felt a flare of respect for the woman despite her obvious missteps. She would never have guessed that the woman had it in her. It had taken guts to come here and go against Mycroft Holmes. Irene wondered what the iceman would do about her. There was also DI Lestrade, the man had been dragged into a situation that went much deeper than he had been led to believe. The poor man, he would suffer from Mycroft's wrath as well. "Do you think your brother will make them disappear?" Irene asked with a glance in Sherlock's direction. The man didn't look at her as he scanned the document carefully, but did reply.

"Possible, if he learns the full extent of their involvement, but he's has bigger problems right now. There is still an unknown. Moran. The one thread left in Moriarty's web. If they keep their heads down and mouths shut, he may not go digging. I did warn Molly before she left." Sherlock sighed and Irene could see the guilt in his eyes. "Do you think there's something wrong with me?" Sherlock asked in a voice that was barely above a whisper. Irene took a moment to consider before she answered truthfully.

"I think you're damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power, in this case it's yourself." Sherlock's eyes darkened with emotion and Irene wished that she could take the words back, but she couldn't. So she went on attempting to explain. "The masks that you wear, the ones that you believe hide your pain; they are nothing but a self portrait." Sherlock sighed seeming to accept the words without further comment. Irene struggled to read him. In many ways, it had been easier before the fall. The masks were easy to see through. Now, she stared at the man behind the mirror and he was a complete mystery to her. "How did John Watson do it? Capture your heart?" Sherlock looked at her blankly for a moment before he replied.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." Irene raised an eyebrow in disbelief. The words were hollow.

"You've already admitted that you love him, don't try to deny it now. For all of your deductions, did you really fail to see it? Don't tell me the great Sherlock Holmes hasn't figured it out. Show me what you're made of. After all, brainy is the new sexy." Irene had been aiming for levity, but it clearly fell flat. Sherlock frowned looking quite put off by her prodding, but remained stubbornly silent. Irene huffed in frustration and before thinking better of it blurted out. "He loved you, you prat! Despite him proclaiming that you were not a couple, he loved you and if he is still alive, I would bet that he still does! As the old saying goes there are none so blind as those who will not see." Sherlock looked at her in shock disbelief written all over his face.

"No, John's not gay." Sherlock claimed. Irene sighed wondering if she had just made a fatal mistake. Some things were better left buried and this may have been one of them.

"What is it with men and their labels? Not gay? Hardly, bisexual at the very least." Irene insisted. "Denial, Sherlock. He was in denial." Sherlock shook his head and his eyes flooded with pain and regret. Irene cursed herself again. The man had suffered enough and rather than give him solace as she had expected; the revelation only served to increase his pain. "Sherlock…" She trailed off unsure of what to say afraid of unintentionally causing more pain to a man that was hanging on by a thread.

"Go! I saved your life and now I wish that I hadn't." Sherlock shouted as the pain quickly morphed into anger. Irene could tell by the murderous look in his eyes that he was serious. She nodded and slipped away wondering what would become of him. He had sent everyone away. Molly, Lestrade, and now Irene.


	22. Chapter 22

Outmanned and Outgunned

Greg

Greg took a drag off of his cigarette releasing a stream of smoke with a sigh as the dial tone greeted him after Sherlock had unceremoniously hung up. Greg didn't quite know what to do at this point. Sherlock didn't want help and he and Molly were out manned and outgunned. This situation was quickly going from bad to worse. In fact, at this point Greg considered it to be a complete clusterfuck. Sherlock Holmes, it always came down to Sherlock. Greg could recall the night he had spoken the words to John. "Sherlock Holmes is a great man and one day he might even be a good one." That remained to be seen. Greg had thought that he had seen Sherlock at his lowest point. Now, however, he wasn't so sure. Sherlock had always been a bit broken, but after meeting John, Greg had caught a glimpse of the good man that he knew that he could be. But, now with John missing, Greg doubted that Sherlock would ever be the same. There was only so much pain and guilt a man could take. Greg could remember the day that they had met. The man had been fresh out of University and high as a kite, although, at the time Greg had been none the wiser.

Greg Lestrade looked at the body with a sigh as the CSI crew finished up. They had no leads and Greg was at a loss. This was the second murder in 3 months that they had failed to solve. Greg hated it when they not only failed to make an arrest, but worse had absolutely no suspects. He had a stack of cold cases that had been growing taller every year, some of the cases dating back years before he had joined the force.

Greg's eyes snapped up as a young tall posh looking bloke approached the scene. "Stay back, this is an official investigation and you'll contaminant potential evidence." Greg called. The man looked at him with disdain and the look on his face clearly said that he thought that Greg was an idiot. Great; a pompous, posh git. Greg thought bitterly.

The man paid him no mind and continued to get closer craning his neck to more closely examine the scene but still standing just outside the crime scene barrier. His eyes moved rapidly around the area as he took everything seemingly at lightening speed. He then looked Greg in the eye confidently then spoke in a rich baritone that belied his youthful appearance. "Murderer was a right handed male between the height of 5'8-5'10, sloppy, likely a crime of passion and therefore he knew the victim. Begin with the lovers, close friends and family."

Greg raised a disbelieving eyebrow unsure of whether this bloke was putting him on. "How do you know that?" He demanded. The man smirked and answered coldly.

"Deduction, Sergeant. One can pick up all kinds of things if one simply observes closely. You, for example, good at your job, workaholic, married with one child and another on the way."

"How did you? Are you spying on me?" Greg snapped. Greg eyed the man suspiciously and upon closer inspection he noticed a few things. While the clothes were expensive and the public school accent screamed high class, the man's eyes were dilated and there was a slight tremor in his hands that he couldn't completely mask. Addict? Greg dismissed the thought as quickly as it had entered his mind. No addict riding a high could have just pulled that off.

"No need. I deduced all of that from your appearance and behavior." Sherlock said without further explanation. The man came closer and whispered in Greg's ear. "Give me the crime file and I'll solve it. The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker's Street." He then turned on his heel and left as mysteriously as he came leaving Greg more than a bit confused and bewildered.

Greg's phone buzzed with a text pulling him from his memories. It was from Molly. Package has been delivered. We've done all we can. Greg sighed in relief, as much as he hated leaving things unfinished, the likelihood of them finding John was slim to none, especially with Sherlock so determined to work alone. Greg pushed the feeling of guilt away and reminded himself that Mycroft was on the case and the man had more resources than either of them could ever dream of. He, or his team, was much better suited to handle this. Greg was just grateful that Molly had finally come to the same realization before things had gone completely south. If they were lucky, they might get out of this place alive.


	23. Chapter 23

Chasing Ghosts

Sherlock

Irene's words echoed in his mind palace seemingly mocking him. I think you're damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In you case, it's yourself.

He couldn't think. Mycroft's words bubbled up. Narrow it down. Sherlock grit his teeth in frustration. Time was running out. He needed to clear his head. God, he missed his violin. It was a Stradivarius, crafted by Antonio Stradivari himself. The instrument had been in Mummy's family for generations. It had been gifted to his great great grandfather, Horace Vernet in exchange for one of his paintings. It had been passed down from generation to generation coming into his possession with Mummy's death. Sherlock sighed as he remembered when had first glimpsed the instrument in the music room instinctively sensing its beauty and unique quality. That is a very special instrument, mon cher. Mummy had murmured to him as she brought it to him to inspect. It is still a bit too large for you to learn on. We will start with a smaller one. Sherlock had insisted that he wanted to learn on that instrument. Mummy had looked closely at his hands and decided to indulge him.

Mummy had taught him to play; told him that he had the hands for it. First, she taught him the science of it: the way the vibration will travel through the bridge and sound post to the body of the violin, radiating the sound into the surrounding air. She told him that the playing tension of a violin string ranged from about 9 lbf to 20 lbf.

She had shown him that an instrument well played could pull emotions out of even the most unwilling listener. There was something about human beings that also responded to a long drawn out note. We all long for a connection, Sherlock, and music connects us all. It sees passed race, color and creed and speaks to the heart. She had whispered as she adjusted the instrument in his hands for the first time. She went on to tell him to say things with his violin, things that he couldn't put into words. Music could be clearer than words sometimes.

The haunting chords of the piano enter his thoughts; minor chords with a bone deep melancholy. Mycroft. Sherlock struggled to remember when he had last heard his brother play. Mycroft's musical talent rivaled his own, but he rarely used it. It was so rare an occurrence that it was easy to forget that it existed at all. His brother's whispered warning entered his thoughts from all those years ago. All lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage. For once, Sherlock paused a moment to pounder what had led his brother to first utter them. There was something that he was missing. Sherlock shook his head to clear it. Think! John. Molly's voice replaced Mycroft's. You need to focus! Sherlock couldn't stop his thoughts were spinning out of control. Moriarty's voice mocked him. Your friends will die if you don't. The image of Moriarty's dead body flashed in his mind. Stop he had to make it stop and Sherlock only knew one way to do it. He pulled the case from inside his belstaff and exposed the syringe. It was filled with his seven percent solution. Sherlock pulled up his sleeve and found a vein and slid the needle in depressing the plunger. Everything faded away.


	24. Chapter 24

Full Circle

Sherlock

Sherlock came down hard and fast. As he came back to himself, the sight a woman greeted him, blonde with porcelain skin and blue eyes. She stared at him with an unreadable expression. This was her, the woman mentioned in Mycroft's report. AGRA agent. True name unknown, alias Mary Morstan. She was the missing link to John. Sherlock had taken a gamble and won. She had shown her hand when she had surfaced. John's disappearance could not have been a coincidence. It was connected to him some how and Sherlock was determined to find out how.

"How did you know I'd come here?" Mary demanded. Sherlock looked her straight in the eye and answered in a cold voice.

"I knew you'd talk to the people know one else would bother with." Sherlock admitted. While Irene gathered her intel in the bedrooms of powerful men, Sherlock had been leaving a trail of breadcrumbs throughout Kandahar hoping to catch a lead. It now appeared that his efforts had paid off.

"I thought I was being clever." Mary replied in a cold voice matching Sherlock's tone as she aimed the gun at Sherlock.

Sherlock took a steadying breath before replying. He was walking a tightrope and one misstep would result in him falling. The thought took him back to the rooftop of Bart's and Sherlock could not repress a shudder. Moriarty's taunts echoed in his mind. "Fallings just like flying except there's a more permanent destination. But it's not the fall that kills you; it's the landing." Mary cleared her throat pulling him back to the present.

"You're always clever, Mary. I was relying on that. I planted the information for you to find." Sherlock goaded. John. He needed to find John and this woman was the key to finding him. Sherlock held her stare daring her to pull the trigger. He was unsure if she would, she was an assassin and no doubt had her marching orders, what those were remained a mystery. "A façade. Sorry, I could resist a touch of drama. How good a shot are you?" Mary smirked and replied.

"I suppose that was a fairly obvious trick and you're about to find out. It all comes back to you. What was it that he said? Oh, yes. I remember. 'I'll burn you, I'll burn the heart out of you.'" Sherlock blanched in shock as she repeated Moriarty's words from the pool. How had she known? Of course, it had to be Moran. He was missing link, the final thread.

"Sorry, not that obvious a trick." Sherlock whispered.

"I don't understand what is special about you, why you are worth all this effort and subterfuge. You were the end game all along. John Watson, he was the lure. I was to keep him alive. They knew you would eventually come looking. I have just received new orders. You're coming with me. They're not done with you yet, not by a long shot."

"John's alive?" Sherlock whispered unable keep his voice steady as hope overtook him. Maybe it wasn't too late.

"You're about to find out." She promised before pulling the trigger. Sherlock sucked in a breath as pain exploded. His last coherent thought was of John.


	25. Chapter 25

Caught in the Web

Sebastian Moran

"Not a kill shot?" Moran demanded unable to keep the anger out of his voice. He breathed a sigh of relief as Holmes was confirmed to be in serious but stable condition. Holmes needed to live. Moran wasn't done with him, not even close. He had gone to a lot of trouble capturing John Watson and forcing treatments on him. Much to his surprise, Watson had lived though it and transitioned to Omega. It was the one unknown with the experimental treatments and a source of constant frustration. They couldn't control which subjects transitioned to Alpha and Omega. Much to their annoyance there seemed to be an equal chance about 51% of subjects transitioned to Alpha while 49% transitioned to Omega. Pity, Watson would have been a spectacular Alpha. With his military training, he would have been a perfect soldier for their growing ranks. Not the point, Moran reminded himself. Watson was the lure for Holmes. Sherlock Holmes was the end game and the ultimate prize. James Moriarty's death would be avenged.

Moran grit his teeth in frustration, AGRA's agent had done so well until now. He wanted Holmes alive, not dead. The woman would pay for that. "Bring him in. Stabilize him and if he lives, we start the transition." Moran ordered. Moran wouldn't be satisfied until he saw the man himself in the flesh. Jim Moriarty's words echoed in his head serving as a grim reminder. "In a world of locked rooms the man with the key is king." Moran sighed. He was close, so very close. Holmes had tried to take the web apart but had only succeeded in becoming caught in it. Moran couldn't hide the smile that thought had caused.

"The itsy bitsy spider…" Moran sang softly with eyes that shown with madness. Sherlock Holmes had likened James Moriarty to a spider. Moran felt his rage build as the image of Moriarty's dead body flashed before his eyes. The blood spatter staining the roof of Bart's as Holmes looked on helpless. Holmes had fallen. That should have been the end, an eye for an eye. Two great minds gone for eternity. But Holmes had orchestrated a masterful illusion. So great that it had fooled everyone, even Moran. But as the saying goes, nothing lasts forever and as pieces of the web began to disappear mysteriously, Moran began to suspect a ruse. There was only one man capable of tracking down the untraceable. Sherlock Holmes. Though Moran had lacked concrete proof of life, he knew that Holmes was alive and taking apart the web one piece at a time. Moran wouldn't allow it. He knew that there was one thing that would bring Sherlock Holmes out of the shadows. John Watson.

It had taken much longer than Moran had expected, but all his labor had finally bore fruit. He would have his revenge. He chuckled darkly and continued to sing softly. "Climbed up the water spout…"


End file.
